CHMOItrAGUE 
CCUDYAR' 


OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY,  LOS  AHGELES 


WRITTEN  IN  RED 

OR 

THE    CONSPIRACY    IN    THE    NORTH    CASE 
(A  STORY  OF  BOSTON) 


BY 

CHAS.  HOWARD  MONTAGUE 

AND 

C.  W.  DYAR 


BRENTANO'S 

UNION   SQUARE        NEW   YORK 
1900 


COPYRIGHT,  1896,  BY 
THE  CASSELL   PUBLISHING  CO. 


Alt  rights  reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  FOUND  DEAD, i 

II.  A  PERFUME — AS  OF  A  WOMAN,      .        .  14 

III.  MR.  LAMM  ASSUMES  COMPLICATED  RELA- 

TIONS   28 

IV.  AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST,    ....  45 
V.  AND  WHO  is  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE  ?      .  60 

VI.  LIFE  AFTER  DEATH,      ....  73 

VII.  THE  INSPECTOR  DISCOVERS  NEW  EVIDENCE,     92 

VIII.  APPLEBEE  is  TAKEN  BY  SURPRISE,         .  103 

IX.  UNDER  COVER  OF  THE  NIGHT,          .        .  115 

X.  WHO  is  SHE? 127 

XI.  IN  DANGER, 141 

XII.  THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES,  153 

XIII.  STILL  THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN,     .        .        .167 

XIV.  MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND,  .  180 
XV.  THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK,       .        .  192 

XVI.  CONSPIRACY  ! 204 

XVII.  FETRIDGE  is  STILL  RETICENT,   .        .        .221 

XVIII.  MADAME  RAYMOND,       ....  237 


iV  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XIX.     "So    LONG    AS    SHE    LIVES    I    AM    IN 

DANGER," 247 

XX.    ASTONISHING    DISCLOSURES   OF   WILLARD 

SMITH, 258 

XXI.    THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT,        .        .  271 

XXII.    THE  MEDEA  WEEPS  !         ....  282 

XXIII.  DRAWING  THE  NET,      ....  297 

XXIV.  "  NAME  THE  MAN," 309 

XXV.    NOT  WHAT  THEY  EXPECTED,  BUT  STILL —  320 


WRITTEN  IN  RED ; 

OR,    THE  CONSPIRACY  JN  THE  NORTH  CASE. 

CHAPTER  I. 

FOUND     DEAD. 

npHE  private  office  of  North  &  Stackhouse,  State 
1  Street,  bankers  and  brokers,  contained  on  the 
morning  of  Friday,  June  16,  1887,  a  group  of 
anxious  and  excited  men,  whose  conversation 
plainly  indicated  that  their  uneasiness  was  caused 
by  the  continued  and  unexplained  absence  of  Paul 
North,  the  senior  partner. 

In  State  Street  circles,  North  &  Stackhouse  were 
classed  among  the  "  plungers."  For  the  first  two 
years  of  the  firm's  existence,  indeed,  there  had  been 
but  slight  departure  from  the  conservative  policy 
followed  by  Mr.  North,  who,  when  in  the  broker- 
age business  on  his  own  account,  had  been  content 
with  a  modest  office  in  a  comparatively  quiet  street 
leading  eastward  from  Post  Office  Square. 

But,  under  the  lead  of  Mr.  Stackhouse — an  ener- 
getic man  of  forty,  ten  years  his  partner's  junior — 
banking  had  been  added  to  brokerage  ;  and  the 
firm  had  become  widely  known  as  the  promoter  of 
many  daring  enterprises. 


2  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Nicaragua  Midland  was  a  speciality  with  North 
&  Stackhouse.  In  season  and  out  of  season, 
Nicaragua  Midland  had  been  "boomed"  with  a 
persistency  that  caused  some  of  the  older  magnates 
of  "the  street  "to  shake  their  heads  ominously,  but 
which  had  attracted,  nevertheless,  the  admiration 
and  co-operation  of  a  multitude  of  people. 

Not  all  who  invested  their  earnings  under  the 
Advice  of  North  &  Stackhouse  had,  it  is  true,  found 
the  venture  profitable. 

But,  for  the  most  part,  the  losers  had  borne  their 
ill  fortune  manfully,  without  complaining.  Few 
angry  outbursts  from  disappointed  patrons  had 
disturbed  the  optimistic  hopes  of  the  bright-eyed 
speculators,  who,  month  after  month,  had  made  the 
rooms  of  these  State  Street  bankers  and  brokers 
their  favorite  haunt. 

Twelve  days  previous  to  this  June  morning  in 
1887,  however,  a  curious  letter,  in  an  unknown 
hand,  had  been  laid  on  Mr.  North's  desk.  The 
writing  was  an  odd  sort  of  scrawl,  uncertain  in  its 
lines,  but  legible  enough.  This  was  the  missive  : 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR. — I  am  a  desperate  man,  ruined  by  your 
manipulations  of  the  property  entrusted  to  your  hands.  I 
must  have  money  enough  to  begin  life  again.  I  only  ask  for  a 
little  back  out  of  all  you  robbed  me  of,  but  that  little  I  must 
have.  There  is  only  one  thing  for  you  to  do  :  Draw  a  check, 
for  one  thousand  dollars,  payable  to  bearer,  and  enclose  it 
addressed  to  me  at  the  post  office,  Boston.  If  you  fail  in  this, 
I  swear  to  shoot  you  down  as  I  would  a  mad  dog.  If  you  are 
wise,  you  will  not  refer  this  matter  to  the  police.  That  act 
would  be  your  death  warrant.  "  DANIEL  STJCKNEY." 


FOUND  DEAD.  3 

Paul  North,  to  whom,  personally,  this  threatening 
letter  was  addressed,  had  consulted  his  partner,  in 
some  little  uneasiness  of  mind. 

"  It's  all  nonsense,"  Mr.  Stackhouse  had  said, 
confidently.  "  A  mere  practical  joke  of  some 
broker  who  wants  to  frighten  you.  A  few  of  them 
were  nipped  in  the  last  turn  of  the  market  in  our 
favor,  you  know,  and  perhaps  they  hold  North  & 
Stackhouse  responsible.  But,  if  the  matter  dis- 
turbs you  at  all,  why,  turn  the  letter  over  to  the 
police.  They'll  attend  to  it.  We  must  look  after 
Nicaragua  Midland  very  sharply  this  week,  North, 
and  have  no  time  to  bother  our  heads  about 
trifles." 

Nevertheless,  Mr.  North  had  troubled  himself 
about  the  matter  sufficiently  to  put  the  letter  into 
the  hands  of  Inspector  Applebee  for  such  action  as 
seemed  proper. 

Upon  the  advice  of  that  quietly  efficient  person- 
age, a  decoy  letter  had  been  written  by  Mr.  North, 
enclosing  a  check  for  1000  dollars,  payable  to 
bearer. 

An  officer,  in  citizen's  clothes,  had  been  stationed 
on  duty  constantly  at  the  post  office,  but  no  Daniel 
Stickney  had  called  for  the  letter  addressed  to  his 
name. 

As  a  precaution  against  any  possible  oversight, 
payment  of  the  check  had  been  stopped  at  the 
bank,  a  precaution  which,  thus  far,  had  proved 
equally  useless. 

"  Just  as  I  told  you,"  Stackhouse  had  said  to  his 


4  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

partner  after  a  few  days.  "  A  broker's  practical 
joke." 

The  letter  soon  passed  out  of  mind,  for  business 
cares  weighed  heavily  on  both  partners. 

What  had  long  been  feared  had  taken  place.  The 
market  had  become  very  "  bearish."  All  stocks  felt 
the  mysterious  influence  of  depression,  and  among 
the  very  first  to  fall  was  Nicaragua  Midland. 

So  absorbed  and  anxious  had  Mr.  North  become 
that  he  could  talk  and  think  of  little  except  the 
market  and  its  prospects. 

Was  it  altogether  on  the  subject  of  Nicaragua 
Midland  that  he  had  held  conference,  late  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  isth  of  June,  with  one  of  the  chief 
investors,  though  not  a  director  in  the  Nicaragua 
Midland — Mr.  Richard  Fetridge? 

Whether  or  not,  the  interview  had  not  been 
finished  at  the  office  ;  for  the  two  men  had  been 
seen  to  walk  away  together,  still  talking  earnestly. 

Old  Jobson,  the  veteran  clerk  of  the  firm,  had 
looked  after  them  as  they  passed  up  the  street. 

"  It's  a  tight  time  for  North  &  Stackhouse,"  he 
had  said  to  himself,  shaking  his  head.  "  If  things 
don't  take  an  upward  turn  very  soon,  I'm  afraid 
to-morrow's  meeting  of  Nicaragua  directors  will  do 
precious  little  good  !  " 

The  junior  partner  had  left  the  office  hours  be- 
fore, outwardly  calm.  Whatever  his  forbodings 
may  have  been,  Thornton  Stackhouse  was  not  the 
man  to  allow  his  troubles  to  show  themselves  in 
look  or  manner. 


FOUXD  DEAD.  5 

Paul  North  was  the  father-in-law  of  his  business 
associate,  and  Thornton  Stackhouse  made  his  home 
in  summer  time  at  Mr.  North's  spacious  villa  at 
Swampscott,  from  whose  broad  windows  the  occu- 
pants enjoyed  an  exhilarating  prospect  of  the  sail- 
flecked  ocean. 

At  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  this  Friday,  the 
i6th  of  June,  the  directors  of  Nicaragua  Midland 
had  assembled,  pursuant  to  call,  in  the  office  of 
North  &  Stackhouse.  Half  an  hour  later  every 
face  wore  a  look  of  anxious  expectation. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all,"  exclaimed  Stack- 
house,  nervously  walking  up  and  down.  "  North  is 
the  most  punctual  of  men,  as  you  all  know.  He 
must  be  ill." 

"Ill !"  echoed  one  of  the  directors.  "Wasn't 
North  all  right  when  you  left  him  at  Swampscott 
this  morning  ?" 

Mr.  Stackhouse  waved  his  hand  impatiently. 

"  I  didn't  go  down  to  the  shore  last  night,"  he 
returned,  shortly.  "  Stayed  in  town  with  a  friend. 
I  left  North  here  in  this  office  about  three  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  and  haven't  laid  eyes  on  him 
since  ! " 

"  Why  don't  you  telegraph  to  his  house  ?  "  asked 
a  little  man  near  the  door.  "  It's  strange  he  hasn't 
sent  some  word  himself  before  this  time.  But  I 
suppose  he's  ill,  and  his  daughters  are  so  v/orried 
about  him  that  they  have  forgotten  to  send.  Just 
like  women  !  "  the  testy  little  bachelor  added. 

The  suggestion  was  acted  upon  instantly.     After 


6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

an  interminable  delay  a  response  came,  evoking  a 
simultaneous  murmur  of  dismay  and  the  interchange 
of  apprehensive  looks. 

"  SWAMPSCOTT,  June  16. 

"  Mr.  North  must  have  stayed  in  town.  He  has  not  been 
here  since  yesterday  morning.  "  COMFORT  II AR WOOD." 

"  Strange  !  "  ejaculated  Stackhouse,  ringing  the 
bell  as  he  spoke.  "  Send  Mr.  Jobson  in,"  he 
added,  the  next  moment,  to  the  waiting  messenger. 

The  old  clerk  was  in  the  room  before  the  mes- 
senger had  left  it,  trembling  all  over  with  senile 
agitation. 

"  At  what  time  did  Mr.  North  leave  the  office 
yesterday  afternoon  ?  "  Stackhouse  demanded  ab- 
ruptly. 

"  It  was  after  five  o'clock,  sir." 

"  Was  he  alone  ?  " 

"  No,  sir.     Mr.  Fetridge  was  with  him." 

"  Probably  went  out  of  town  somewhere  with  Fet- 
ridge," suggested  one  of  the  directors.  "  Delayed 
— missed  a  train.  Very  provoking !  On  this  day, 
too,  of  all  others  !  But  send  round  to  Fetridge's 
office  and  see  if  he  has  been  heard  from." 

Unasked,  the  old  clerk  took  upon  himself  the 
duty  of  messenger,  and  the  party  anxiously  awaited 
his  return.  But  one  question  and  answer  were 
interchanged  meanwhile. 

"  Has  Nicaragua  been  quoted  to-day,  Stack- 
house  ? "  the  little  old  bachelor  queried. 

"  Yes.  Offered  at  9.  No  takers.  Off  a  point 
already,  you  see." 


FOUND  DEAD.  7 

The  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  in  the  outer 
office  announced  to  the  anxious  ear  of  Stackhouse 
the  coming  of  Mr.  Fetridge  himself.  The  broker 
stepped  forward. 

"  Well  ? " 

It  was  evident  at  first  sight  that  the  new  comer 
was  unduly  agitated.  He  was  a  stalwart,  handsome 
fellow,  certainly  not  beyond  thirty  years  of  age. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  where  North  is  any  more  than 
you,"  he  exclaimed,  without  waiting  for  question. 
"  I  walked  up  the  street  with  him  yesterday  after- 
noon, after  a  talk  in  his  office." 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?  " 

Fetridge  flushed  and  seemed  considering  a  reply. 
All  eyes  were  turned  on  him. 

"  I  don't  know  the  exact  point,"  he  said  at  last. 
"  At  the  corner  of  State  and  Washington  Streets,  I 
think  it  was." 

Stackhouse,  who  was  very  nervous  and  more 
affected  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  require,  stared 
at  Fetridge  blankly,  as  if  utterly  at  a  loss  to  account 
for  his  confusion. 

"  His  town  house  is  closed  for  the  summer,"  he 
suggested,  his  eyes  still  on  Fetridge's  face.  "  He 
must  have  gone  to  some  hotel." 

"  Send  a  messenger  to  make  the  rounds  !  "  ex- 
citedly demanded  the  little  bachelor. 

Richard  Fetridge  seemed  to  find  the  situation 
unaccountably  embarrassing.  He  had  no  advice 
to  offer.  Stackhouse  particularly  appeared  to  dis- 
concert him.  Murmuring  something  about  having 


8  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

left  a  man  waiting  for  him  at  his  office,  and  that 
he  presumed  North  would  be  found  speedily,  he 
hastened  out  and  betook  himself  in  the  direction  of 
his  place  of  business.  The  necessity  of  haste  in  his 
return,  however,  seemed  to  become  less  obvious  to 
him  after  he  reached  the  open  air.  He  stood  stock 
still  with  his  foot  upon  the  flight  of  stairs  leading 
to  his  office,  and  then,  under  the  stress  of  a  sudden 
thought,  wheeled  abruptly  and  walked  energetically 
back  up  the  street. 

In  five  minutes  he  was  in  police  headquarters  at 
Pemberton  Square,  inquiring  anxiously  of  the 
official  to  whom  the  clerk  referred  him  whether  any 
notification  of  the  disappearance  of  Paul  North  had 
been  sent  to  him.  The  official  professed  ignorance 
of  the  matter. 

"  When  was  he  last  seen,  sir  ?  " 

"  Yesterday  afternoon  about  five  o'clock,  going 
up  State  Street  from  his  office,"  Fetridge  rejoined, 
avoiding  further  detail.  And  hastened  to  add  : 
"  He  has  a  town  house  at  —  Marlboro  Street,  you 
know.  Perhaps  it  isn't  my  place  to  suggest  it,  but 
don't  the  police  in  such  cases  have  authority  to 
enter  a  man's  premises  if — " 

Fetridge  hesitated.  The  official  observed  him 
narrowly,  wondering,  no  doubt,  why  he  was  so  ob- 
viously agitated. 

"Undoubtedly  ;  if  his  friends  desired  it,  and  had 
any  reason  to  believe  that  there  was  anything  the 
matter,  the  police  would  enter  the  house." 

Fetridge  thereupon  urged  the  official  to  obtain 


FOUND  DEAD.  9 

permission  from  Thornton  Stackhouse  to  make  a 
search  of  the  premises.  He  was  unable  to  give  any 
direct  reason,  and  unwilling  to  put  into  words  any 
definite  suspicion,  but  he  showed  by  his  conduct 
that  he  had  both.  Eventually  a  messenger  was 
despatched  in  search  of  Stackhouse,  who  thereupon 
responded  in  person.  He  seemed  a  little  surprised 
to  see  Fetridge,  and  the  official  noted  that  there 
was  a  constrainedness  and  a  lack  of  cordiality 
between  the  two  men.  Their  opinions,  however, 
coincided  upon  the  matter  in  question. 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Stackhouse,  "  search  the 
house  in  Marlboro  Street.  It  is  my  residence  as 
well  as  North's,  and  I  authorize  you — if  the  men 
sent  are  discreet  and  trustworthy." 

The  official  arose. 

"  Then  I  will  send  word  at  once  by  telephone  to 
Station  4.  You  don't  happen  to  have  a  key  to  the 
house  about  you  ? " 

"  Why,  no,"  returned  the  partner.  "  My  keys 
are  in  my  wife's  care  at  Swampscott,  or  I  should 
have  gone  to  the  house  myself." 

The  message  was  sent,  and  while  the  police  of 
the  fourth  division  were  acting  in  accordance  there- 
with, Stackhouse  and  Fetridge  sat  waiting  at  head- 
quarters, the  quiet  broken  only  by  the  scratching 
of  the  busy  pen  of  a  clerk. 

No.  —  Marlboro  Street  was  a  broad,  brown 
house,  the  counterpart  of  half  a  hundred  other 
dwellings  within  a  stone's  throw  of  Paul  North's 
town  residence. 


10  1.  RI1  TEN  IN  RED. 

As  the  sergeant  and  patrolman  of  the  fourth  divi- 
sion neared  the  place,  they  observed  the  outer  door 
at  the  entrance,  and  saw  that  all  the  windows  in  the 
basement  and  first  story  were  barred  or  shuttered. 
Curtains,  closely  drawn,  lent  a  cheerless  and 
deserted  appearance  to  the  windows  above. 

"  And  yet,"  remarked  the  sergeant,  as  he  went 
up  the  steps,  "  somebody  has  been  here.  The 
outer  door  is  open  ;  the  vestibule  door  unlocked." 

It  was  indeed  true,  and  led  at  once  to  the  con- 
clusion that  Paul  North  was  within. 

The  officer  rang  the  be!!.  But  though  the  sum- 
mons was  repeated  again  and  again  it  awoke  no 
responsive  life  inside  the  darkened,  echoing  house. 
The  sergeant  calmly  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
an  entrance  must  be  forced,  and  after  a  brief 
inspection  of  the  premises  sent  Johnson,  the  officer, 
in  quest  of  a  ladder.  The  ladder  was  obtained 
from  the  nearest  depository  of  the  fire  department ; 
and  the  officers  were  soon  in  the  rear  of  Paul 
North's  residence. 

It  took  but  a  minute  to  open  the  door  of  the 
yard.  In  another  minute  the  ladder  rested  against 
a  brick  wall,  and  Officer  Johnson,  with  a  curious 
piece  of  flexible  steel  in  his  grasp,  had  pushed  back 
the  lock  of  a  curtained  window  in  the  second  story. 

"  A  bedroom,"  said  the  sergeant,  pulling  up  the 
curtain  with  some  difficulty,  when  they  were  both 
inside  ;  "  bed  untouched,  however.  Door  open 
into  that  dark  room  in  front.  Other  door  open — 
to  the  corridor,  no  doubt." 


FOUND  DEAD.  II 

\ 

The  sergeant  led  the  way  through  a.  door  diago- 
nally opposite  the  window  by  which  they  had  gained 
entrance. 

It  was  the  corridor,  as  he  had  expected.  He  set 
out  methodically  to  peer  into  the  rooms  as  he  went 
along,  but  he  met  with  an  obstacle  at  the  very 
outset. 

At  the  head  of  the  broad  front  staircase  the  door 
refused  to  yield  to  his  pressure  beyond  a  limited 
degree.  Officer  Johnson  was  about  to  push  the 
door  vigorously  when  he  was  stopped  by  a  warn- 
ing gesture  from  his  superior. 

As  the  patrolman  stepped  back  the  sergeant, 
pressing  against  the  door  as  lightly  as  possible,  in- 
sinuated his  way  into  the  unvisited  room.  A  half- 
stifled  cry  brought  his  subordinate  to  his  side. 

"  Don't  move  it  !  Don't  touch  it !  "  whispered 
the  sergeant,  putting  an  admonitory  hand  on  the 
officer's  shoulder.  It  was  by  no  means  horror 
which  inspired  his  utterance.  Both  men  looked 
down  upon  a  figure,  lying  with  outstretched,  clutch- 
ing hands,  close  against  the  door. 

With  the  caution  of  experience  the  sergeant  bent 
down,  and  placed  his  hand  over  the  heart. 

"  Dead  !  "  he  said  in  a  moment,  half  to  himself, 
half  to  his  companion,  and  straightened  up  without 
losing  his  composure. 

Officer  Johnson,  new  to  the  force  and  to  this 
kind  of  experience,  by  no  means  preserved  his 
presence  of  mind  in  the  emergency,  and  held  fast 
to  the  sergeant. 


12  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

The  room,  seen  through  the  twilight,  had  a 
weird,  uncanny  look  ;  the  tables,  enswathed  in 
their  coverings,  seemed  coffin  shaped,  and  the 
chandelier,  in  its  shroud  of  brown  holland,  might 
have  been  a  ghost  pointing  down  to  the  inanimate 
figure  on  the  floor. 

"  What's  that  on  the  wall  by  the  door  ?  "  whis- 
pered Officer  Johnson,  pointing  with  shaking 
finger. 

The  sergeant  had  opened  the  window  almost 
before  his  companion  had  finished  the  sentence. 

In  the  glare  of  the  sudden  instreaming  sunlight 
on  the  tinted  wall,  low  down,  near  the  door  by 
which  the  body  lay,  was  a  scrawl  in  dull  red  : 


"  Stockhart—  Stockhaus—  Stockhouj  !  " 

Thus  the  sergeant,  as  they  both  stared  with  all 
their  eyes. 

"  There's  a  '  Stack,'  or  '  Stock,'  written  there," 
said  the  officer,  positively.  "  Whatever  the  rest 
may  mean,  that  much  is  certain." 

He  was  still  gazing  at  the  message  when  he  re- 
ceived a  peremptory  order  to  proceed  to  the  station 
and  notify  the  authorities. 


FOUND  DEAD.  13 

"  For  there's  a  hue  and  cry  coming  out  of  this 
thing,  or  I'm  no  prophet,"  the  sergeant  said. 

And  as  he  waited  for  the  coming  of  his  associates 
the  sergeant  looked  down  thoughfully  at  the  silent 
figure.  What  an  uproar  and  commotion  in  the 
community  would  follow  this  discovery,  so  quietly 
made  in  the  silent  chamber  !  The  sergeant  was 
philosopher  enough  in  his  way  to  think  of  this 
and  to  mutter  to  himself  as  he  kept  his  lonely 
watch  : 

•'  Within  twenty-four  hours,  for  all  you  lie  there 
so  silent  and  utter  no  sound,  the  thoughts  and  con- 
jectures of  a  million  people  will  center  about  you, 
and  Heaven  knows  how  many  lives  and  loves  you 
will  make  and  break  before  you  are  through  with 
them  !  " 

The  sergeant  was  quite  right.  The  arm  of  a 
dead  man  may  have  a  tremendous  power  to  threat- 
en and  control,  and  Paul  North  dead  might  work 
more  mischief  still  than  Paul  North  living. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A    PERFUME — AS   OF    A    WOMAN. 

PHILOSOPHICALLY  reflecting,  Sergeant  Parr 
1  continued,  nevertheless,  a  careful  scrutiny  of  the 
apartment.  It  was  beyond  doubt  a  library,  for  the 
backs  of  books  showed  behind  the  sheets  that  cov- 
ered certain  articles  of  large  bulk.  The  adjoining 
room  was  in  all  probability  the  sleeping  chamber  of 
the  master  of  the  house.  A  casual  inspection  satis- 
fied the  officer  that  the  bed  had  not  been  occupied 
since  it  was  last  made  up. 

But  there  was  something  more  important  still  in 
the  sergeant's  estimation  to  be  ascertained,  and  on 
that  he  had  ample  time  to  reach  a  settled  convic- 
tion. It  was  evident  at  first  sight  that  the  man  on 
the  floor  had  come  to  his  death  by  reason  of  a  bul- 
let wound.  If  his  own  hand  had  been  responsible 
for  the  deed,  the  suicidal  weapon  must  be  some- 
where about.  And  as  a  careful  search  failed  to 
reveal  any  trace  of  such  a  weapon,  the  sergeant  had 
made  up  his  mind  long  previous  to  the  arrival  of 
the  investigating  party  that  the  case  was  a  very 
serious  one  and  involved  at  the  outset  a  deep 
mystery. 

The  scene  soon  changed.  The  room  gradually 
14 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  15 

filled  with  alert  and  dignified  men,  whose  profession 
made  their  attendance  at  such  times  a  matter  of 
too  frequent  occurrence  to  permit  of  their  exhibit- 
ing any  other  sentiment  in  the  presence  of  the  grim 
witness  of  violent  death  than  a  keen  and  specula- 
tive business  interest.  In  the  vestibule  below,  two 
officers  were  stationed  to  challenge  everybody  who 
attempted  to  enter  the  house.  Already  in  front  of 
the  building,  so  quickly  and  mysteriously  does  evil 
news  disseminate  itself,  was  gathered  a  throng  which 
stared  with  fascinated  horror  at  the  upper  windows 
and  at  every  fresh  ingoer  and  outcomer. 

Sergt.  Parr  had  long  since  recognized  Inspector 
Applebee,  and  had  whispered  in  his  ear  that  it  was 
going  to  be  a  "  big  case." 

"  So  ?  "  said  the  inspector,  lifting  his  eye-brows 
and  half  smiling.  A  moment  later  he  was  grave 
and  apparently  unconcerned. 

Dr.  Jarret,  the  medical  examiner  for  the  district 
in  which  the  body  was  found,  came  to  the  scene  in 
a  carriage.  Till  he  arrived  nothing  was  done. 
The  State  imposes  upon  the  judgment  and  good 
sense  of  these  officials  grave  responsibilities.  In 
three  minutes  after  his  horse  stopped  in  front  of 
the  house,  Dr.  Jarrett  was  at  work  examining,  ques- 
tioning, weighing  the  evidences  in  his  own  mind. 

The  casual  observer  would  have  looked  in  vain 
among  these  quiet  officials  for  the  inevitable  reporter. 
Evidently  the  newspaper  man  was  barred  out !  Not 
at  all.  The  public  who  look  for  a  notebook,  and 
expect  to  find  in  such  circumstances  a  meddlesome 


1 6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

young  man  writing  with  ghoul-like  activity,  would 
never  have  suspected  the  short,  thick-set,  black- 
haired,  gentlemanly  young  man  who  talked  with 
each  person  present  in  an  easy  way,  which  showed 
that  he  was  personally  acquainted  with  every  one. 
Instead  of  flourishing  a  notebook — the  insignia  of 
the  property  reporter  of  the  theater,  and  of  the 
beginners  in  the  profession — this  man  had  no  bet- 
ter use  for  his  hands  than  a  mechanical  fondling  of 
the  pendant  to  his  watch  chain — a  trick  which  in 
some  mysterious  manner  seemed  to  help  him  to 
think.  Although  he  was  young,  his  experience  in 
criminal  affairs,  combined  with  his  natural  ability, 
had  made  his  sagacity  equal  to  that  of  anybody 
present,  while  his  trustworthiness  and  reliability 
enabled  him  to  be  oftentimes  in  important  cases  a 
confidant  of  the  authorities.  This  was  Kingman 
F.  Thomas  of  the  Boston  Globe. 

The  medical  examiner  arose  from  a  brief  inspec- 
tion of  the  body,  which  was  already  identified  as 
that  of  Paul  North,  the  State  Street  financier. 
Everybody  looked  at  him  curiously,  but  his  imper- 
turbable face  told  no  tales. 

"  Nothing  has  been  disturbed  ?  "  he  asked  of  the 
sergeant. 

"  We  knew  our  business,  sir.  Everything  is  ex- 
actly as  we  found  it." 

"  Ah  !  "  No  more  and  no  less,  came  in  a  matter- 
of-fact  tone  from  the  medical  examiner's  lips. 

"  Well,  doctor,"  said  Mr.  Thomas,  "  how  is  it?" 

"  I  shall  perform  an  autopsy." 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  I? 

This  was  said  quietly.  The  medical  examiner 
retrained  from  advancing  his  opinion  at  this  stage, 
hut  Thomas  understood  that  the  determination  to 
perform  an  autopsy  indicated  serious  suspicion  on 
the  physician's  part. 

There  was  a  tremulous  touch  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  turned  to  meet  the  eyes  of  a  man  whom  he 
did  not  know. 

"What — what  is  that  writing  on  the  wall 
down  there  by  the  door  ? "  asked  a  shaking 
voice. 

"  This  is  a  friend  of  the  family,  doctor,"  inter- 
posed Inspector  Applebee,  by  way  of  accounting 
for  this  unfamiliar  presence  there.  "  He  was  Mr. 
North's  partner.  Naturally  he  is  very  much  over- 
come." 

In  tones  that  were  a  trifle  steadier,  Mr.  Stack- 
house  repeated  his  question.  Bending  down  to 
seek  an  answer  himself,  he  started  back,  and  would 
have  fallen  but  for  the  opportune  aid  of  the  news- 
paper man. 

"  A  horrible  sight  !  I  cannot  look  at  it,"  he 
muttered,  putting  his  hand  over  his  eyes.  "  Tell 
me  what  you  make  it  out !  " 

A  glance  of  intelligence  passed  between  the 
inspector  and  the  sergeant.  Each  divined  perfectly 
what  had  brought  such  a  shock  to  the  mind  of  Paul 
North's  partner.  Each  understood  fully  the  man's 
unspoken  fear. 

Meanwhile  Dr.  Jarret,  anplying  certain  mysteri- 
ous tests,  seemed  more  intent  upon  determining 


1 8  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

the  medium  of  this  strange  message  than  the  mes- 
sage itself. 

"Written  in  blood,"  he  said,  eventually, '.ooking 
steadily  at  Stackhouse  ;  "  and  the  condition  of  the 
forefinger  of  the  right  hand  seems  to  indicate  that 
the  dead  man  wrote  it."  He  paused  and  Stack- 
house  sank  into  a  chair.  "  But  what  odds  ?  The 
writing  will  endure,  gentlemen.  We  have  other 
things  to  do." 

He  gave  the  inspector  a  meaning  look  and 
resumed  his  work.  Thomas  lost  not  a  detail  of 
this  scene. 

But  now,  with  Inspector  Applebee  as  his  close 
companion,  the  library  and  the  adjoining  room 
were  examined  minutely. 

The  room  had  been  used  very  recently.  Regard- 
ing that  point,  there  was  no  possibility  of  doubt. 

Chairs  had  been  moved  from  their  accustomed 
places.  On  the  opened  desk,  which  Mr.  Stack- 
house  at  once  identified  as  his  partner's,  stood, 
amid  a  heap  of  tumbled  papers,  a  drop  light.  Near 
by,  a  burnt  match.  Obviously  the  windows  had 
not  been  touched. 

The  adjoining  room,  vouched  for  as  Paul  North's 
chamber  by  his  partner,  soon  recovering  his  self- 
control,  bore  no  traces  of  occupancy.  As  the  door 
was  open  between  it  and  the  library,  it  was  plain 
xhat  the  master  of  the  house  must  have  passed 
through  the  room.  He  had  not  slept  there,  for  the 
bed's  surface  was  unrma-d,  and  not  a  fold  of  the 
pillows  had  been  disturbed. 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  19 

"  One  thing  is  evident,"  said  Thomas.  "  This 
man  was  not  killed  for  money.  I  saw  the  doctor 
take  a  well-filled  pocket-book  from  his  person,  and 
not  a  thing  in  the  house  appears  to  have  been  dis- 
turbed." 

A  call  from  Dr.  Jarrett  summoned  the  two  men 
back  into  the  chamber  of  death. 

"  You  had  better  look  for  the  bullet,  gentlemen," 
he  said  quietly.  "  It  is  evident  that  it  went  clear 
through  him.  and  it  is  surely  nowhere  about  his 
clothing." 

Instantly  everybody  was  examining  the  room,  the 
furniture,  the  walls,  the  carpet.  But  for  some  time, 
it  appeared  that  the  ball  had  been  spirited  away  as 
mysteriously  as  the  fatal  weapon  from  which  it 
had  been  fired. 

"  Hallo  !  "  exclaimed  Thomas,  suddenly,  as  he 
pointed  to  the  wall,  "  what's  that  up  there  above 
that  picture  ?  " 

Thomas  was  pointing  to  a  slight  protuberance  in 
the  surface  of  the  wall,  directly  opposite  the  bay- 
window,  near  the  ceiling. 

"  What,  that  ? "  exclaimed  the  inspector.  "  Im- 
possible !  It  is  quite  ten  feet  away  trom  the  floor." 

"  But  it's  a  bullet,  none  the  less,"  said  Thomas, 
who  had  already  mounted  on  a  chair  and  began  to 
ascertain  the  distance  of  the  puncture  above  the 
carpet. 

"  You  are  right,  inspector,"  he  said.  "  It  is  nine 
feet  eleven  inches  from  the  floor,  and  is  driven  in 
diagonally,  as  if  it  had  been  fired  from  the  corner 


?0  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

of  the  bay-window  over  there  near  the  writing, 
desk." 

u  I  can't  understand  that  at  all,"  said  the  inspec- 
tor. "  It  must  have  been  deflected  in  its  course 
somehow  to  have  got  there.  The  man  was  evidently 
shot  in  the  breast.  His  clothes  in  front  are  simply 
one  mass  of  blood.  Ah  !  I  see  there  was  more 
than  one  shot  fired.  This  is  a  stray  ball." 

The  house  was  searched  from  top  to  bottom. 
Nowhere  was  any  trace  of  intrusion. 

"  If  Mr.  North  slept  here  at  all  last  night,"  said 
the  inspector,  "  it  must  have  been  in  his  chair  in 
his  library." 

Dr.  Jarrett  assented.  Sergeant  Parr,  who  had 
been  notified  from  the  fourth  division  that  he  need 
no  longer  remain  on  duty  in  the  place,  willingly 
volunteered  to  take,  as  he  went  out,  a  message  to 
the  captain  in  charge  of  the  division. 

"  I  have  sent  for  an  ambulance,"  Dr.  Jarrett 
explained  to  the  group  that  surrounded  him  in 
Paul  North's  chamber.  "  The  body  will  be  taken 
to  the  morgue,  and  I  will  hold  an  autopsy  at  once. 
As  Mr.  North's  partner  is  here,  I  will  waive  the 
r.sual  formalities  and  state  beforehand  that  there  is 
little  doubt  that  an  inquest  will  take  place,  though 
I  would  ask  reporters  not  to  make  any  such  direct 
announcement." 

Mr.  Stackhouse  bowed. 

"  I  quite  understand,  sir,"  he  said,  "and  whatever 
testimony  I  can  give  I  shall  offer  most  willingly. 
But  now  I  feel  that  I  should  take  the  terrible  news 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN. 


21 


to  the  family — my  wife,  you  know,  was  Mr.  North's 
daughter." 

Ab  Mr.  Stackhouse  went  his  way  up  the  shady 
side  of  Marlboro  Street,  an  initiated  observer  would 
hardly  have  failed  to  note  that  another  man  followed 
in  his  wake  upon  the  opposite  pavement. 

The  quiet  reporter  meanwhile  had  busied  himself 
in  making  a  diagram  of  the  second  story  of  the 
North  house,  which  appeared  the  next  morning  in 
his  paper  in  substantially  the  following  form  : 


B 


d  H 


1     [I 

/v         L 


<r 


PLAN  II.   STORY. 

HOUSE    FRONTS  ON    MARLBORO   STREET. 


A — Hall  bedroom  used  by  Mr.  North  since  wife's  death.  £ — Mr. 
North's  library.  C — Back  bedroom  opening  into  hall  opposite  head  of 
front  stairs  (.F),  and  connecting  with  library  through  wash  room  (77),  and 
with  toilet  room(^f).  E — Hall  connecting  front  and  back  stairs.  F — 
Front  stairs.  C— Back  stairs.  // — Closet.  /—Windows.  J — Spot  where 
body  of  Mr.  North  was  found.  X — Writing  desk,  d — Point  in  wall  where 
the  bullet  was  found. 


22  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Thomas  sat  cross-legged  on  one  of  the  chairs  ip 
the  unoccupied  chamber  through  which  the  officers 
had  originally  entered,  making  a  rough  sketch  on 
the  back  of  an  envelope  with  a  stubby  pencil,  when 
he  was  slightly  startled  by  the  unexpected  presence 
of  a  man  at  his  elbow. 

"  Well,  Thomas  ? " 

"  Ah,  inspector." 

"  How  does  it  look  to  you  ? " 

"  Queer." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  say  about  it  ?  " 

"That  it's  a  dead  mystery — unless  we  make  some 
unexpected  discovery  in  the  next  half  hour." 

"  Well,  may  be  you're  right.     May  be." 

"  It's  no  suicide,"  said  Thomas,  affably  ;  "  that's 
plain  enough.  And  as  there  has  been  no  robbery, 
it  doesn't  appear  as  yet  why  he  should  have  been 
killed." 

"  No  ? " 

"  But  of  course  you  have  your  theory  already  ? " 

"When  it  comes  to  the  matter  of  theories,"  re- 
turned Applebee,  mischievously,  "a  plain  police- 
man like  myself  can't  hold  a  candle  to  you  news- 
paper fellows." 

"  I  see,  you  don't  intend  to  answer  questions," 
said  Thomas.  "  I  suppose  I  may  state  that  the 
police  are  already  on  the  track  of  the  murderer, 
and  that  important  arrests  are  momentarily  ex- 
pected ? " 

"  State  what  you  please.  You  will,  any  way," 
the  inspector  returned,  with  a  slight  frown.  "  No, 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  23 

I  didn't  come  to  answer  questions,  as  you  say.     I 
came  to  ask  them." 

"  Better  than  nothing.     What  are  they  ?" 
"  In  the  first  place,  did  you  know  North  ?" 
"  Just  to  the  same  extent  that  I  know  hundreds 
of  men.     I  have  seen  him,  talked  with  him — you 
know  how  and  where." 

"  In  the  line  of  your  work,  you  mean  ?  " 
"  Exactly.  He  was  what  I  call  a  professional 
acquaintance.  When  we  met  in  a  crowd  I  saw 
North,  the  wealthy  broker  ;  but  he  saw  only — the 
crowd.  Poor  fellow  !  with  all  his  resources  he 
couldn't  stop  that  bullet.  Meantime,  nobody 
thinks  it  worth  while  to  shoot  simple  K.  F. 
Thomas." 

"  Well,  I  doubt  that,  too.  I've  heard  the  propo- 
sition seriously  discussed  at  headquarters.  Joking 
aside,  what  does  rumor  say  about  North's  private 
life  ?  Was  he  still  young  in  spite  of  his  fifty  years, 
or  was  he  one  of  your  quiet  stay-at-homes  ?  " 

"  So  far  as  rumor  reached  me,  he  was  a  business 
man  and  nothing  else.  Anybody  that  ever  saw 
Paul  North,  it  seems  to  me,  would  say  that  he  was 
too  much  engrossed  in  his  life-long  chase  of  the 
almighty  dollar  to  have  time  for  follies." 
"  Then,  as  to  his  family  ?  " 

"  They  tell  me  he  has  two  daughters  ;  both  beau- 
ties. I  never  saw  them,  however.  His  wife,  I  be- 
lieve, is  dead." 

"  How  did  he  stand  in  financial  circles  ?  " 
Thomas  uttered  a  contemptuous  laugh. 


24  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  North  &  Stackhouse  ?     Ask  any  broker." 

"  Bad  ? " 

"  Better  put  it  that  they  showed  too  much  enter- 
prise to  please  conservative  business  men.  That's 
the  most  charitable  construction  I  can  put  on  it." 

"  You  didn't  invest  anything  in  their  railroad, 
did  you,  Thomas  ? "  the  inspector  asked,  quizzi- 
cally. 

"  Did  I  ?  No,  sir.  I'm  not  Jay  Gould,  and,  if  I 
had  been,  I  should  have  known  enough  to  have 
kept  out  of  Nicaragua  Midland.  That  was  a  fraud, 
inspector  ;  one  of  those  frauds  you  can  suspect, 
but  never  prove ;  one  of  the  numerous  '  sup- 
pressed '  stories  kept  on  file  in  a  newspaper  office  ; 
one  of  the  truths  you  can't  print  because  it  would 
libel  some  high-toned  rascal  whom  the  law  is 
framed  to  protect  !  " 

"  Hump  !  You  have  not  a  very  high  opinion  of 
North  &  Stackhouse  ?  " 

Thomas  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

''  Socially,  they're  gentlemen.  Men  who  handle 
millions  can  never  come  down  to  the  level  of  com- 
mon thieves." 

"  They  must  be,  then,  enormously  rich  ?" 

"  On  the  contrary ;  they  are  regarded  as  ex- 
tremely shaky." 

"  So  ?  And  what  have  they  done  with  these 
millions  ?  " 

"  Got  caught  in  their  own  trap.  An  unexpected 
twist  in  the  market  burnt  their  hands  off.  Oh,  it's 
all  the  same  in  stocks.  You  can  think  yourself 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  2$ 

ever  so  clever — but  I'm  talking  too  much,  inspec- 
tor. I  am  saying  things  on  my  mere  surmises  that 
no  newspaper  would  dare  to  print.  Still,  you 
wanted  my  opinion,  and  you  have  it.  It  would  be 
of  no  use,  I  suppose,  to  ask  yours  in  return  ? " 

Thomas  gave  Applebee  a  keen  look,  under  the 
influence  of  which  the  inspector  momentarily  closed 
his  eyes,  as  if  afraid  that  the  reporter  might  sur- 
prise his  thoughts  there. 

"  Some  clients  of  North  &  Stackhouse  have  no 
very  pleasant  feelings  towards  them,  I  presume,  on 
account  of  this  Nicaragua  scheme?"  he  adroitly 
queried,  as  if  to  change  the  subject.  It  was  adroit 
for  that  reason.  While  appearing  to  avoid  a 
direct  answer,  he  was,  in  reality,  putting  the  very 
question  which  he  desired  to  have  answered. 

Did  the  reporter  suspect  ?  There  was  not  the 
faintest  indication,  either  in  his  manner  or  in  his 
quiet  reply,  that  he  did. 

"Some  of  the  poor  fools  who  invested  their 
money  in  that  scheme  would  very  likely  hold  the 
firm  morally  responsible  for  ruining  them." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  inspector,  as  he  turned  away. 
"  I  suppose  so.  But  I'm  forgetting  my  case  in 
listening  to  you." 

The  fact  was,  Inspector  Applebee  was  endeavor- 
ing to  establish  some  connection  between  the 
anonymous  threatening  letter  which,  ten  days  be- 
fore, had  been  placed  in  his  hands  by  the  late  Paul 
North,  and  this  violent  death. 

"  But,  in  that  case,"  he  thought,  "  why  has  not 


26  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

the  money  been  called  for  at  the  post  office  ?  Is 
it  possible  that  the  writer  of  that  letter  was  in  a 
position  to  know  that  the  matter  had  been  placed 
in  my  hands  ?  I  must  move  cautiously  in  this 
affair  or  ruin  it  at  the  outset." 

Not  long  after  Mr.  Thomas's  departure,  most  of 
Applebee's  associates  left  the  house,  the  medical 
examiner  going  first  of  all. 

Paul  North's  body  had  been  taken  away  in  the 
undertaker's  wagon,  but  the  inspector  and  one  offi- 
cer still  remained  on  the  premises. 

Quite  by  accident,  as  he  was  coming  down  the 
staircase  which  connected  the  library  floor  with  the 
story  above,  after  a  prowl  through  the  darkened 
rooms  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house,  the  inspec- 
tor's eye  caught  the  gleam  of  something  white. 

He  picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  tiny  lace  handkerchief,  such  as  a  dainty 
woman  often  carries,  but  a  man  never.  This  was 
the  thought  that  flashed  through  the  inspector's 
mind,  to  give  place  instantly  to  another. 

That  subtle,  delicate  perfume !  In  all  his  long 
experience  Inspector  Applebee  had  never  inhaled 
its  like. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  thought  as  he  held  up  the  filmy  lace 
and  looked  at  it  more  closely.  "  But  I  might 
have  known  it  from  the  first.  A  woman  in  the 
case  !  " 

He  pressed  it  again  to  his  nose  and  put  it  care- 
fully away  in  a  pocket-book.  On  second  thought 
he  removed  it,  and  made  doubly  sure  of  retaining 


A  PERFUME— AS  OF  A    WOMAN.  27 

the  perfume  by  wrapping  it  in  heavy  glazed  writing 
paper. 

"  Some  day,"  he  reflected,  "  I  may  meet  this 
scent  somewhere,  and  it  will  be  better  not  to  have 
to  trust  to  my  memory  to  recall  it." 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.  LAMM  ASSUMES   COMPLICATED    RELATIONS. 

ABOUT  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day 
Paul  North  was  found  dead,  Detective  Lamm, 
pursuing  the  even  contemplative  tenor  of  his  way 
by  the  old  Granary  burying  ground,  found  himself 
suddenly  arm  in  arm  with  an  excited  gentleman 
whose  face  he  did  not  recall. 

"  Mr.  Lamm  ? "  questioned  Mr.  Richard  Fet- 
ridge. 

"  That  is  my  name,  sir." 

"  Excuse  me.  I  know  you.  I  need  your  ser- 
vice at  once.  I  have  unlimited  money  at  my  dis- 
posal. You  have  been  recommended  to  me  by 
trusted  friends  as  most  discreet  in  your  calling. 
Come  with  me  !  " 

And  without  giving  Mr.  Lamm  time  to  make 
demur  to  these  hurried,  disjointed  remarks,  Rich- 
ard Fetridge,  still  with  the  detective's  arm  in  his 
grasp,  hurried  him  down  Tremont  Street,  up  Beacon 
Street  and  Somerset  Street,  and  so  into  Pemberton 
Square.  If  Detective  Lamm  had  a  momentary 
suspicion  that  this  imperative  gentleman  was  de- 
mented, a  sidelong  glance  reassured  him  on  that 
point.  He  had  made  physiognomy  a  study,  and  in 
28 


LAMM'S  COMPLICATED  RELATIONS.        29 

his  companion's  face  he  read  not  lunacy,  but  un- 
usual excitement. 

The  two  were  in  Mr.  Fetridge's  private  office, 
and  the  door  secured  against  intrusion  before  De- 
tective Lamm's  vis-a-vis  declared  himself. 

"  Pardon  my  abruptness,"  said  Fetndge.  "  Pres- 
sing business  must  be  my  excuse.  Not  to  waste 
time  in  preambles,  Detective  Lamm,  I  want  to 
retain  your  services  in  a  matter  of  vital  interest  to 
me.  You  shall  fix  the  amount  of  compensation 
yourself.  Now  will  you  undertake  this  service?" 

Mr.  Lamm  looked  at  him  calmly.  "That  de- 
pends somewhat  upon  the  nature  of  the  business  in 
hand,"  he  said  drily. 

"  Oh,  it's  perfectly  legitimate,"  went  on  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge.  "  It's  this  terrible  murder  in  Marlboro 
Street — the  killing  of  Paul  North.  He  was  my 
friend  ;  I  am  on  intimate  terms  with  the  family, 
and  I  wish  to  be  kept  fully  posted  on  the  progress 
of  the  work  of  detecting  the  guilty  party." 

"  Umha  !  You  have  a  keen  interest  in  this  mat- 
ter, sir  ! " 

"Why,  detective,"  said  Fetridge,  edging  his 
chair  closer,  "  I  have  good  reason  to  be  eager  in 
this  matter.  As  man  to  man,  I  tell  you  here  that  I 
believe  the  guilty  man  in  this  case  to  be  Paul 
North's  partner  ! " 

The  detective  remained  utterly  unmoved,  but 
grave  and  attentive. 

"Mr.  Thornton  Stackhouse?" 

"Of  course,"  said   Fetridge  quickly,  "I   make 


3°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

this  statement  absolutely  in  confidence.  I  wouldn't 
condemn  the  man  publicly  on  my  simple  suspi- 
cions." 

"  Oh,  of  course  not." 

"  But  I  tell  you,  sir,"  Fetridge  resumed,  pacing 
the  floor  excitedly,  "  I  know  the  man  to  be  a 
villain.  I  know  him  for  a  scoundrel,  and — good 
heavens  !  Poor  North  !  Poor  Marion  !  What  a 
misfortune  ! " 

A  man  more  agitated  than  Mr.  Richard  Fetridge 
over  a  similar  affair  certainly  had  never  fallen  under 
Detective  Lamm's  observation.  He  dropped  sud- 
denly into  a  chair,  and  was  pressing  his  hands 
against  his  temples  as  if  to  still  the  throbbings  of  a 
violent  headache.  The  detective  watched  him 
under  his  eyebrows.  Now  that  he  knew  his  name 
he  remembered  that  he  had  heard  of  him  as  a  young 
lawyer  who  had  recently  fallen  heir  to  a  large 
fortune,  and  it  seemed  to  him  too  that  he  could 
dimly  recall  having  heard  him  referred  to  as  the 
Apollo  Belvidere  of  State  Street. 

"  You  will,  of  course,  acquaint  me  with  the 
reasons  for  your  suspicions?"  Mn  Lamm  mildly 
suggested,  by  way  of  bringing  his  now  motionless 
client  to  a  realization  of  his  surroundings.  Fetridge 
awoke  from  his  trance  with  a  start. 

"  Reasons  ? "  he  echoed.  "  No  !  Certainly  not ! 
Why  should  I  ? " 

"  It  might  be  well  for  me  to  have  something  to 
work  on  at  the  start,  Mr.  Fetridge." 

Fetridge  was  now  on  his  feet  again,  and   took 


LAMM '  S  COM  PLICA  TED  RE  LA  TIONS.        3  * 

two  or  three  turns  up  and  down  the  apartment  in 
thoughtful  silence. 

"  No,"  he  said  at  last,  pausing  in  front  of  the 
detective.  "  No,  I  see  no  reason  for  telling  you — 
not  yet,  certainly.  It  would  not  aid  you  in  the 
least.  It  would  simply  convince  you  that  Stack- 
house  might  have  had  a  motive,  and  a  strong  one. 
As  for  anything  else,  you  would  be  left  as  much  in 
the  dark  as  I  am." 

"  I  would  urge  upon  you — " 

"  It  is  useless,"  interrupted  Fetridge.  "  There 
are  family  reasons  for  my  silence.  I  am  a  friend 
of  the  family.  Why,  if  it  hadn't  been  so  I  should 
have  gone  at  once  with  all  I  know  to  the  police. 
But  there  are  some  things,  Lamm,  which  the  least 
said  about  the  better — and  Stackhouse's  incentive 
to  this  deed  of  violence  is  one  of  them." 

"  Umha  "  (the  detective  had  a  habit  of  prefacing 
his  discourse  with  this  reflective  grunt),  "North 
had  quite  a  family  ?  " 

"  He  has  two  daughters,  sir." 

Fetridge  had  resumed  his  walk. 

"Young?     Unmarried?" 

"What?  Don't  you  know?  The  eldest,  Marion, 
is  Thornton  Stackhouse's  wife.  The  younger, 
Stella,  is  seventeen." 

"  And  Mrs.  North  ?  " 

"Dead  these  fifteen  years.  Her  sister,  Comfort 
Harwood,  is  the  housekeeper.  The  family  are  at 
the  beach  at  Swampscott — still,  I  presume,  in  igno- 
rance of  the  awful  cloud  which  is  hanging  over 


32  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

them.  Poor  girls !  Poor  old  Aunt  Comfort !  I 
say,  Lamm,  you'll  undertake  the  case,  wont  you  ? 
If  there's  any  disgrace  I  can  save  this  bereaved 
family,  I  am  bound  to  do  it.  I  want  to  employ  you 
to  hunt  up  evidence  in  behalf  of  the  family,  and  to 
report  to  me  as  rapidly  as  possible.  In  fact,  I  wish 
to  know,  if  it  can  be  done,  all  the  evidence  the 
police  have  when  the  inquest  is  called.  I  wont 
conceal  from  you  that  the  attitude  I  shall  take  on 
that  occasion  may  be  governed  largely  by  what  you 
tell  me.  And,  by  the  way,  when  is  the  inquest 
likely  to  be  held  ? " 

"  It  is  a  delay  of  days  or  weeks,  as  the  police 
determine." 

"  Very  well,  and  in  the  meantime  I  may  count 
upon  your  undivided  services.  You  understand 
what  I  want.  I  am  always  at  my  office  here,  or 
you  may  telegraph  me  at  the  Beach.  Whenever 
there  is  any  development  in  this  sad  affair,  I  desire 
to  know  it  with  as  brief  delay  as  possible,  whether 
it  helps  or  hinders  my  suspicions  of  Stackhouse  in 
the  case  is  not  to  the  present  purpose.  Facts 
are  what  I  wish  to  ascertain  ;  and  there  is 
nobody  who  can  arrive  at  the  facts  more  surely 
or  more  quickly  than  you — and  this  is  not  flattery, 
either !  " 

Mr.  Lamm  made  a  deprecatory  gesture. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Fetridge,  no  man  can  make  a  fairer 
offer  than  you've  made,  and  under  the  circum- 
stances I'll  be  very  glad  to  take  up  the  case  and  see 
what  I  can  make  of  it.  Count  upon  me  to  let  you 


LAMM'S  COMPLICATED  RELATIONS.        33 

know  when  I  have  found  anything  of  the  slightest 
value." 

"I  certainly  shall,  detective,"  returned  Fetridge, 
whose  face  expressed  the  satisfaction  he  felt  at 
securing  such  an  ally.  And  so  the  conference 
ended. 

Detective  Lamm,  now  turning  his  steps  towards 
his  own  office,  not  far  away,  bethought  himself  that 
this  man  Stackhouse,  whom  he  knew  very  well  by 
sight,  would  be  likely  to  occupy  a  large  share  of 
his  time  and  attention  for  many  days  to  come. 

It  came  as  a  surprise,  even  to  his  imperturbable 
nature,  to  find  that  the  first  face  to  look  into  his  as 
he  entered  his  office  was  the  face  of  Thornton 
Stackhouse.  But  Detective  Lamm  was  quite  equal 
to  the  occasion. 

"  Were  you  waiting  to  see  me  ?  "  he  asked,  in 
his  most  matter-of-fact  tones.  A  quick  look  had 
assured  him  that  the  banker,  though  less  excited  in 
manner  than  his  recent  client,  was  certainly  not 
positively  free  from  agitation. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Stackhouse,  taking  a  chair  in 
response  to  the  detective's  beckoning  invitation. 
"  My  name  is  Thornton  Stackhouse.  I  have  come 
almost  directly  from  the  house  of  my  partner,  Paul 
North.  You  know,  of  course,  about  his  death — his 
murder  ?  " 

Mr.  Lamm  bowed,  twirling  a  pen  between  his 
fingers,  and  waited  for  his  companion  to  continue. 

"  Perhaps  I  need  not  recount  all  the  circum- 
stances, detective,  that  combine  to  make  this  a  very 


34  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

difficult  and  delicate  case.  You  will  readily  under- 
stand, without  my  saying  anything  further,  that  the 
very  best  and  most  confidential  advice  is  requisite. 
And  that  is  precisely  why  I  came  here,  Mr.  Lamm, 
to  enlist  your  services  in  getting  at  the  facts — all 
the  facts — of  this  mysterious  crime.  Now,  can  I 
secure  you  ?  There  will  be  a  handsome  compensa- 
tion— you  will  have  all  the  time  and  money  needed 
to  carry  on  your  investigation." 

Detective  Lamm,  looking  at  the  wall  and  still 
twirling  his  pen  in  his  hands,  seemed  to  be  consid- 
ering what  engagements  he  had  made  with  which 
this  new  commission  might  conflict.  At  least, 
such  was  the  impression  of  Thornton  Stackhouse. 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  detective  said  slowly,  at 
last.  "  I  have  a  great  deal  of  business  just  now — 
more  than  I  can  properly  handle  in  fact.  It 
depends  upon  what  you  want.  Was  there  any  par- 
ticular point  you  wished  to  present  to  my  attention, 
Mr.  Stackhouse,  or  was  it  simply  that  you  wished 
me  to  ascertain  facts  and  report  to  you  ? " 

Mr.  Stackhouse  looked  at  the  door  with  some 
vague  apprehension. 

"  We  shall  not  be  disturbed,"  said  the  detective  ; 
"  I  sprang  the  lock  as  I  came  in." 

Mr.  Stackhouse  brought  his  chair  close  to  the 
detective.  When  he  spoke  it  was  in  very  low  tones, 
hardly  above  a  whisper. 

"  Mr.  Lamm,  you  may  have  read  in  the  afternoon 
papers  that  a  name  was  written  on  the  wall  close 
to  where  my  partner  lay  dead." 


LAMM'S  COMPLICATED  RELATIONS.        35 

A  nod  and  a  renewed  twirling  of  the  pen. 

"  That  name,  Mr.  Lamm,  was  meant  to  be  mine — 
was  mine  !  " 

The  detective  raised  his  eyebrows  and  seemed 
about  to  speak. 

"You  are  going  to  ask  me  how  I  know,"  said 
Stackhouse.  "  Why,  I  read  it  with  my  own  eyes. 
Yes,  the  papers  said  the  scrawl  might  have  meant 
Stick  or  Stock  or  Stockholm,  and  so  on  ;  but  I  had 
a  keener  and  truer  sight  than  the  officers  there. 

"  Now,  detective,  that  name  was  written  by  some 
enemy  of  mine,  who  seeks  to  implicate  me  in 
this  terrible  affair.  I  am  convinced  of  the  fact. 
And,  being  so  convinced,  a  man  of  your  experience 
does  not  need  to  be  told  that  I  dismiss  the  idea 
that  Paul  North  wrote  that  name  on  the  wall  as 
utterly  out  of  the  question." 

The  grave,  listening  face  near  his  wore  no  look 
of  surprise,  as  Mr.  Lamm  nodded  his  full  under- 
standing of  his  visitor's  thought. 

"  North  being  put  aside,  we  must  look  for  the 
guilty  party  in  another  quarter.  Mr.  Lamm,  you 
don't  happen  to  recollect  who  it  was  at  the  meeting 
of  Nicaragua  directors,  of  which  the  papers  pub- 
lished an  account,  testified  that  he  parted  with  Paul 
North  late  yesterday  afternoon  ? " 

Mr.  Lamm  did  not  appear  to  recollect,  for  he 
pursed  up  his  lips,  shrugged  his  shoulders  slightly, 
and  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  detective,  that  man  was  Mr.  Richard 
Fetridge,  of  whom  you  may  have  heard — a  young 


36  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

lawyer  of  considerable  property  who  has  had  deal- 
ings with  our  firm." 

"  Richard  Fetridge,"  repeated  the  detective 
slowly  ;  "  well  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Fetridge  stated,  after  considerable  hesita- 
tion, which  I  couldn't  help  noticing,  that  he  left 
Mr.  North  about  five  o'clock,  after  a  business  inter- 
view with  him  at  our  office.  What  the  nature  of 
that  conference  between  them  was  I  can't  say. 
Mr.  Fetridge  and  I  did  not  like  each  other,  I'm 
free  to  say  it,  and  latterly  I  fancied  that  he  grew 
even  more  curt  and  unpleasant  in  his  manner 
toward  me  than  before.  Not  that  I  cared  for  that, 
you  understand  ;  I  would  not  have  given  the  mat- 
ter a  moment's  thought  but  for  this  terrible  affair. 
Nor  even  now,  if  Fetridge's  strange  conference,  and 
his  hesitancy  about  saying  where  he  left  Mr. 
North,  were  not  put  in  a  more  peculiar  light  by 
certain  other  facts  that  have  come  to  my  knowl- 
edge." 

"  New  facts  ? ' 

"  Yes.  Fetridge  and  North  were  seen  together 
at  a  much  later  hour  than  five  o'clock  the  afternoon 
of  the  murder." 

The  statement  was  made  pointedly,  and  the 
detective  gave  evidence  of  interest. 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Absolutely  sure."  Mr.  Stackhouse's  voice  had 
sunk  to  a  confidential  whisper.  "  A  business 
acquaintance  whose  word  is  beyond  question  has 
told  me  that  he  saw  the  two  men  walking  up  the 


LAMM'S  COMPLICATED  RELATIONS.        37 

Public  Gardens  at  seven  o'clock  last  evening, 
going  in  the  direction  of  Marlboro  Street." 

Lamm  threw  off  the  mask  of  reserve. 

"And  that  is,  to  your  mind,  a  most  valuable,  a 
most  important,  piece  of  evidence  ?  In  conjunction 
with  Mr.  Fetridge's  conduct  and  course,  you  would 
consider  it  certainly  very  significant  ?  " 

"  So  significant,"  returned  Stackhouse,  "  that  but 
for  the  fact  that  I  want  to  have  the  criminal  so 
tangled  in  the  mesh  when  he  is  caught  that  there 
can  be  no  possible  escape,  I  should  before  this 
have  given  the  information  to  the  police." 

"  Then  your  theory  is —  ?  "  suggested  the  detec- 
tive. 

"  What  theory  could  a  man  have  under  the  cir- 
cumstances ?  Richard  Fetridge  gained  my  part- 
ner's confidence — got  into  the  family  on  a  friendly 
footing — saw  it  was  of  no  use  to  keep  up  his  scheme 
of  *  working '  poor  Mr.  North  any  further,  enticed 
him  to  this  interview  and  subsequent  conference  at 
his  house,  and  there  murdered  him." 

"Murdered  him?"  echoed  Mr.  Lamm,  with  not 
a  shade  of  difference  in  the  tone  or  his  voice,  quite 
as  if  he  expected  just  such  a  revelation. 

"  Not  only  murdered  him,"  Stackhouse  went  on, 
his  voice  now  full  and  strong  under  the  stress  of 
excitement ;  "  but  tried  to  fasten  the  guilt  of  the 
crime  upon  me.  Richard  Fetridge  wrote  my  name 
there  in  the  blood  of  his  victim — Richard  Fetridge, 
and  no  other.  I  feel  as  certain  of  it  as  if  I  had 
been  a  witness  of  the  deed.  He  is  my  enemy  ;  I 


38  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

have  felt  it  for  a  long  time,  and  in  the  hostility, 
and  no  doubt  his  dread  lest  his  scheming  with 
North  should  come  to  light  through  my  examina- 
tion of  his  affairs,  he  has  done  his  utmost  to  dis- 
credit and  dishonor  me.  Now  you  see  why  I  want 
Richard  Fetridge  watched  ;  why  I  want  him  fol- 
lowed at  every  step  ;  why  I  want  his  guilt  estab- 
lished by  incontrovertible  proof." 

By  this  time,  Stackhouse,  with  his  fists  clenched, 
was  pacing  the  floor. 

"  First  of  all,"  said  the  detective,  quietly  observ- 
ing Stackhouse  under  his  eyebrows — "  first  of  all, 
let  us  look  at  your  own  interests  here.  Perhaps 
you  over-estimate  the  influence  of  that  word  written 
on  the  wall — your  name,  as  you  declare.  No  one 
else  has  asserted  this  openly,  Mr.  Stackhouse  ; 
but  there  have,  no  doubt,  been  whisperings  to 
that  effect,  and  it  is  the  part  of  wisdom  for 
you  to  silence,  at  once  and  effectually,  any  such 
charge,  uttered,  insinuated,  or  hinted  at.  You 
can,  of  course,  prove  your  whereabouts  at  the 
time  when  the  murder  must  have  been  com- 
mitted ? " 

Mr.  Lamm  said  this  in  a  tone  of  business-like 
indifference. 

"  You  mean — an  alibi  ?  "  asked  Stackhouse,  with 
something  more  of  hesitancy  than  had  characterized 
his  statements  hitherto. 

"  Certainly." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Lamm,  as  we  are  on  confidential 
terms,  talking  as  man  to  roan,  I  see  no  reason  for 


LAMM'S  COM  PLICA  TED  RE  LA  TIONS.        39 

concealing  the  fact  that  my  position  as  regards  an 
alibi  is  a  little  peculiar." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  Mr.  Lamm  gave  his  pen  another 
twirl. 

"  I  went  to  Vercelli's  about  half-past  six  o'clock 
for  dinner  with  Mr.  Sparhawk,  one  of  my  business 
friends.  He  was  obliged  to  take  a  train  out  of 
town  on  the  Providence  road,  and,  after  the  dinner, 
I  walked  up  and  down  the  Public  Garden,  smoking 
a  contemplative  cigar." 

"  Alone  ? " 

"  Yes.  Just  how  long  this  might  have  taken  I 
really  cannot  say." 

"  About  what  time  did  you  finish  your  dinner  ?  " 

"  Somewhere  about  half-past  seven  o'clock. 
After  this  little  walk,  to  help  digest  my  dinner,  I 
went  towards  Washington  Street  again.  Then — but 
why  should  I  beat  about  the  bush  ?  The  evening 
was  on  my. hands,  and  I  dropped  in  for  a  quiet 
little  game  with  some  friends  at  a  house  in  Avory 
Street." 

"  Yes  ;  I've  heard  of  the  place,"  said  the  detec- 
tive dryly. 

"  There  I  stayed  until  it  was  getting  nearly  two 
o'clock,  when  I  walked  into  the  Adams  House,  and 
slept  till  breakfast." 

"  Umha  !  "  Mr.  Lamni  seemed  to  be  considering 
a  point.  "  About  what  time  did  you  visit  the 
Avory  Street  house  ?  It  may  be  important  as  bear- 
ing on  the  question  of  alibi." 

"  Not  until  after  nine.     I  can  be  sure  of  that,  for 


40  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

I  distinctly  remember  hearing  the  bells  ring  at  that 
hour  while  I  was  in  the  street." 

"  At  all  events,"  said  the  detective,  "  your  friends 
can  testify,  if  it  should  be  necessary,  through  any 
complication  of  circumstances,  when  you  joined 
your  party,  and  how  long  you  remained  there  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly."  Mr.  Stackhouse  sat  a  moment 
thinking  in  his  turn.  "  I  suppose  no  reliable  opin- 
ion has  yet  been  given  as  to  the  time  when  Paul 
North  came  to  his  end  ?  "  He  looked  a  trifle  un- 
easy as  he  put  the  question. 

"  We  must  await  the  report  of  the  autopsy  on  that 
point,"  rejoined  the  detective.  "  It  seems  to  be 
taken  for  granted  that  Mr.  North  died  some  time 
between  6  P.M.  and  9  A.M.  by  the  papers.  Only 
the  decision  of  the  medical  examiner,  however,  can 
have  weight  in  the  matter.  If  I  can  ascertain  its 
drift  in  advance,"  added  Mr.  Lamm,  as  if  struck  by 
a  sudden  thought,  "  I  will  advise  you  at  once." 

"  Then  you  really  think  you  can  undertake  the 
case  ?  "  Stackhouse  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  have  decided  to,"  said  Lamm  dryly.  "  I  am 
very  glad  you  came  here,  Mr.  Stackhouse.  I  think 
I  should  have  been  led  into  serious  error  regarding 
this  case  if  you  had  not  come.  However,  it  is  all 
right.  I  shall  make  an  exception  to  an  almost  un- 
broken business  rule,  and  undertake  the  case  for  a 
few  days  at  least.  If  I  find  I  cannot  continue  the 
work,  I  will  promptly  notify  you." 

Evidently  gratified  at  receiving  this  assurance, 
Stackhouse  took  his  leave. 


LAMM 'S  COM  PLICA  TED  RELA  TIONS.        41 

Left  to  himself,  the  detective  indulged  in  a  mo- 
mentary relief  of  his  feelings.  He  took  up  his  hat, 
looked  into  it,  smiled  into  it,  and  put  it  on  his  head. 
After  this  performance,  he  became  as  indifferent 
and  serene  as  if  the  complication  in  which  he  had 
so  readily  involved  himself  were  the  commonest 
sort  of  experience  with  him.  But,  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  it  was  not.  Mr.  Lamm  was  not  in  the  habit 
of  working  for  both  sides  of  a  case  at  the  same 
time,  and  he  was  only  induced  to  break  his  rule  in 
this  instance  by  the  sudden  suspicion  that  Fetridge, 
not  Stackhouse,  was  the  criminal.  He  had  strong 
objections  to  identifying  himself  with  the  cause  of 
the  murderer  when  he  might  be  employed  in  the 
interests  of  justice. 

"  I'll  soon  find  out,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  which 
of  you  is  the  villain,  and  send  in  my  resignation  to 
that  man  at  once." 

But  it  did  not  prove  to  be  such  an  easy  task  as 
Mr.  Lamm  had  anticipated. 

The  detective  left  his  office  almost  upon  the  heels 
of  his  second  client,  and,  shadowing  him  a  short 
distance,  saw  him  enter  a  branch  office  of  the 
Western  Union  Telegraph  Company.  It  is  a  very 
strict  rule  with  the  company  that  despatches  are  to 
be  considered  confidential,  and  woe  to  the  man  who 
betrays  this  confidence  and  gets  caught  at  it.  But 
it  is  a  pretty  difficult  thing  to  restrain  a  man  from 
accommodating  a  friend  when  he  is  sure  that  the 
friend  will  never  allow  him  to  suffer  thereby  ;  and 
so,  through  the  courtesy  of  the  operator,  who  was 


42  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

upon  Mr.  Lamm's  list  of  "  availables,"  the  despatch 
written  by  the  junior  partner  was,  soon  after  that 
gentleman's  departure,  in  the  hands  of  the  detec- 
tive. It  was  addressed  to  Comfort  Harwood, 
Swampscott,  and  contained  these  words  : 

"  Am  very  busy  with  matters  growing  out  of  sad 
event.  Will  come  by  five  o'clock  train  to  Phillips 
Beach." 

The  reading  of  this  telegram  modified  John 
Datum's  plans.  If  he  wished  to  shadow  Stackhouse, 
there  were  two  courses  open  to  him.  One  was  to 
follow  him  through  all  the  details  of  his  operation 
till  he  got  to  Swampscott,  and  the  other  was  to 
anticipate  his  arrival  there.  He  adopted  the  latter 
as  the  more  promising. 

"  With  all  due  respect  to  you,  Mr.  Fetridge,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  I  should  like  to  begin  the  case 
with  an  understanding  of  the-  motive,  and  if  it's  a 
family  affair,  as  you  say,  why  the  family  will  be  a 
very  good  point  to  start  at.  Perhaps  I  shall  find 
them  less  delicate  than  you  are  about  it — who 
knows  ?  For  at  such  times  emotional  excitement 
loosens  everybody's  tongues." 

He  consulted  a  time-table  and  hastened  to  the 
railway  station  in  Causeway  Street.  In  fifteen 
minutes  he  was  in  the  train  going  towards  Swamp- 
scott. 

He  went  into  the  smoking  car,  pulled  out  a  cigar, 
and  was  soon  lost  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  The  effort 
stimulated  his  ideas,  and  when  he  had  got  them  in 
logical  order  he  produced  a  capacious  memorandum 


LAMM 'S  COMPLICA  TED  RELA  TIONS.        43 

book,  and  recorded  therein  with  a  stylographic  pen 
a  series  of  hieroglyphics.  As  the  occasion  for 
secrecy  has  long  ago  expired,  Mr.  Lamm's  notes 
may  be  transcribed. 

1.  Stackhouse  has   no  alibi  between  seven  and 
nine  of  Thursday  night.     Get   from   medical  ex- 
aminer probable  time  of  death. 

2.  Fetridge  turns  away   when  forced  to  speak 
about     North's     daughters.       Is     it     Marion    or 
Stella  ? 

3.  If  Marion,  is  there  any  other  reason  necessary 
for  enmity  between  two  men  ? 

With  this  brief  indication  of  his  train  of  thoughts, 
Mr.  Lamm's  record  ceased. 

Drawing  from  his  pocket  a  scarcely  dry  copy  of 
the  paper  containing  the  first  chapter  of  the  tragic 
mystery  in  which  he  was  embarked,  he  ran  his  eye 
carefully  through  the  meager  details  thus  far  pub- 
lished. He  seemed  pleased  when  he  saw  by  whom 
the  report  was  signed. 

"  K.  F.  Thomas  ?  Indeed  ?  I'll  look  him  up  at 
once.  That  fellow  knows  more  people  and  their 
histories  than  a  biographical  dictionary.  Perhaps 
he  can  tell  me  all  I  want  to  know  about  Richard 
Fetridge." 

At  this  point  in  his  soliloquy,  Mr.  Lamm  could 
not  repress  a  start  of  surprise.  At  that  very  in- 
stant, the  man  whose  name  was  on  his  mind's  lips 
entered  the  smoking  car,  and  sat  down  in  one  of 
the  forward  seats. 

"  What  the  deuce  is  Fetridge  going  to  Swamp- 


44  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

scott  for  at  this  time  of  the  day?"  he  asked  him- 
self. 

And  for  reasons  which  he  believed  to  be  excel- 
lent, the  detective  folded  his  paper  and  hastened 
out  of  possible  rai^e  of  view  cf.  his  client  ;  unsat- 
isfied till  he  had  put  the  entire  length  of  the  train 
between  them. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AN    UNBIDDEN    GUEST. 

IN  the  appearance  of  John  Lamm,  detective,  as 
he  rode  towards  Swampscott,  there  was  nothing 
to  denote  his  especial  calling.  He  might  have  been 
a  prosperous  merchant  or  a  consulting  lawyer  or  a 
skillful  civil  engineer,  so  far  as  manner  and  bearing 
were  concerned. 

Firmness  and  executive  ability,  however,  were 
characteristics  that  no  one  who  looked  attentively 
at  the  brown-haired,  broad-shouldered,  keen-eyed, 
stalwart  man  could  possibly  fail  to  note. 

In  his  suave  and  gentlemanly  manner,  too,  in 
his  magnetism,  his  geniality,  and  his  ability  to  be- 
come hail  fellow  well  met  with  the  most  opposite 
social  types,  might  be  read  the  secret  of  his  extra- 
ordinary success  in  the  profession. 

Alighting  at  the  Phillips  Beach  station,  with  a 
large  contingent  of  sojourners,  Mr.  Lamm  appeared 
to  be  quite  as  familiar  with  the  p'lace  as  the  rest  of 
the  hurrying  throng. 

In  order  to  permit  Fetridge  to  get  well  out  of 
the  way,  he  stopped  to  inquire  of  the  station  agent 
where  the  Norths  lived. 

"  Just  up  the  street,  yonder,"  the  agent  replied. 
45 


46  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Sad  news  for  them,  isn't  it  ?  The  whole  household 
is  upset.  There's  Moffet,  their  '  inside  man,'  now, 
on  the  platform,  looking  after  the  train." 

In  a  moment  Mr.  Lamm  was  at  the  side  of  the 
bewildered  Moffett,  and  talking  to  him  as  if  he  had 
known  the  portly  man  of  bottles  and  carving  knives 
all  his  life. 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  met  you,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
a  friend  of  Mr.  North,  and  take  a  great  interest  in  the 
family.  Poor  girls  !  I  couldn't  bear  to  break  in 
upon  their  grief,  but  I  feel  that  at  a  time  like  this  a 
friend  should  do  something." 

Moffett  clutched  his  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  he  whispered,  with  an  aroma  of  some- 
thing stimulating  by  the  way  of  flavour  for  the 
words,  "  if  you  are  a  friend,  you  can't  do  better 
than  come  up  to  the  house.  I  have  been  waiting 
here  in  hopes  that  Mr.  Stackhouse  would  return. 
But  he  doesn't ;  and  there  they  are  at  the  house  in 
a  terrible  condition,  sir." 

"  Overcome  by  the  sad  news  ?  "  Mr.  Lamm  said, 
as  they  walked  up  the  street. 

"  Oh,  sir,  there's  been  some  trouble  there.  I 
don't  know  what  —  scenes  between  the  women. 
They  don't  understand  what  to  do,  sir.  The  serv- 
ants are  all  upset  too.  If  it  weren't  for  me,  sir, 
nobody  would  think  of  going  to  watch  for  Mr. 
Stackhouse.  It's  his  not  coming  that  worries  me, 
sir." 

Moffett  was  ordinarily  a  very  discreet  man,  but, 
under  the  excitement  of  the  time,  he  recounted 


AN   UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  47 

such  an  extraordinary  though  incoherent  story  of 
what  had  taken  place  at  the  Norths'  that  Lamm 
was  nonplussed  at  his  disclosures,  and  was  moved 
to  consider  seriously  what  was  best  to  be  done. 
Then  came  one  of  those  inspirations  which,  by 
reason  of  their  boldness  and  audacity,  may  lead 
either  to  great  success  or  absolute  disaster.  Might 
he  not  enter  the  house  unknown  to  its  occupants  ? 

It  was  indeed  a  bold  thing  to  do — a  thing  which 
John  Lamm,  detective,  would  not  do  in  any  circum- 
stances, but  for  his  belief  that  Moffett's  disjointed 
utterances  implied  a  state  of  affairs  that  demanded 
investigation. 

Yielding  to  the  earnest  wish  of  Moffett,  the 
friend  of  the  family  entered  the  house  through  the 
servants'  door,  the  "  inside  man  "  clinging  to  his 
arm  with  a  nervous  grasp. 

Without  delay,  Mr.  Lamm  was  escorted  to  the 
pantry-room  by  the  portly  Moffett,  who  moved 
lightly,  though  slowly.  They  entered  this  sanc- 
tuary of  the  "  inside  man  "  without  meeting  any  of 
the  household  ;  for,  of  course,  Moffett  had  the 
necessary  keys. 

It  had  been  observed  by  M»r.  Lamm  that  the 
"  inside  man  "  had  been  taking  something  for  his 
stomach's  sake  ;  but  the  detective  understood  the 
strain  under  which  the  man  had  been  laboring,  and 
felt  sure,  from  his  appearance,  that  he  was  far  from 
being  addicted  to  strong  drink. 

Moffett  had  assumed  an  air  of  importance  and 
profound  mystery  that  would  infallibly  have 


*8  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

aroused  comment  and  suspicion  had  he  met  any 
of  the  servants.  But,  fortunately,  both  were  now 
in  the  pantry-room  with  the  door  locked. 

The  detective  was  accustomed  to  meet  all  sorts 
and  conditions  of  men,  but  he  found  it  hard  to 
refrain  from  laughing  outright  at  the  change  in 
Mr.  Moffett's  looks  as  he  faced  him,  after  the  pantry- 
room  door  had  been  locked,  and  held  up  a  warning 
finger.  But  he  said  solemnly  : 

"  Moffett,  you're  a  man  o*:  sense,  therefore  I 
make  no  long  explanations,  but  tell  you  frankly  at 
once  that  I  am  a  representative  of  the  authorities — 
don't  start,  Moffett — and  am  sent  here  in  the  inter- 
ests of  justice." 

"  Justice  !  "  murmured  the  butler,  looking  help- 
lessly at  him. 

"  Here  is  my  badge,"  continued  the  detective, 
throwing  back  his  coat.  "And  now  it  is  absolutely 
necessary,  Moffett,  that  I  should  have  the  run  of 
the  house — watch,  without  anybody's  suspecting  the 
fact,  all  that  goes  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  affairs 
generally.  I  have  come  to  you  in  this  way,  Moffett, 
because  I've  been  told  that  you  are  a  very  discreet 
man.  Unless  you  repeat  what  I  have  told  you, 
nobody  in  the  house  need  know  of  my  remaining 
here,  nor  have  any  idea  of  the  real  object  which 
brings  me." 

"  But  I  don't  like,  sir,"  stammered  the  butler,  who 
already  began  to  tremble. 

"  You  must  like  it,  Moffett,"  emphasized  the 
detective.  "  I  don't  wish  to  make  any  trouble  or 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  49 

take  you  in  charge,  but  I  am  fully  prepared  to  go 
as  far  as  that  if  you  are  not  sensible  enough  to  see 
the  reasonableness  of  my  first  proposal.  There  ! 
I  see  by  your  look  you  understand  the  situation. 
Very  good.  Now,  where  is  the  best,  the  most  cen- 
tral, place  in  the  house,  in  which  you  can  stow  me, 
do  you  think,  Moffett  ?  " 

The  "  inside  man  "  of  Mr.  Paul  North's  estab- 
lishment was  a  picture  of  perplexity  and  despair. 

"  Central  place  !  Stow  you  !  "  he  murmured 
helplessly,  puffing  like  a  fat  porpoise  ;  "but  what 
will  Miss  Harwood  say — and  Mrs.  Stackhouse, 
and — and — Mr.  Stackhouse  ?  No,  no  ;  it  aint 
regular.  I'm  afraid  it  aint  regular,  sir." 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  misunderstand  me,  Moffett ; 
misunderstand  me  completely,"  said  Mr.  Lamm, 
calmly  crossing  his  legs  as  he  sat  in  the  butler's 
chair.  "It's  to  spare  the  ladies  worry,  trouble, 
and  excitement  that  I  came  to  you.  I'll  be  frank 
with  you  ;  because  I  can  easily  see  you're  a  man  of 
discretion,  and  can  keep  a  secret.  I  am  expecting 
the  murderer  of  Mr.  North  to  call  here,  and  I  want 
to  be  where  I  can  arrest  him  quietly  and  without 
undue  excitement,  which  you  wouldn't  want  your- 
self in  a  family  like  this,  now,  would  you,  Moffett  ? " 

"  But — but  they — the  servants — might  know 
you're  here.  They  may  have  seen  you  come  in. 
They—" 

"  Oh,  pshaw,  Moffett,  you  can  slam  the  front 
door,  and  if  any  questions  are  asked,  you  can  say 
that  I  went  out  that  way.  Come,  come,  Moffett, 


5°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

be  a  man.  Don't  shake  so.  Everything  will  be 
done  quietly  and  in  order,  I  can  assure  you." 

"  And  this  man,  this  murderer,"  stammered  Mof- 
fett,  who  was  well-nigh  frightened  out  of  his  wits  ; 
"  is  he  violent,  sir  ?  Wont  he  try  to  shoot  some- 
body else  ?  Wont  he — I  think,  perhaps,  if  I  went 
out  down  the  street  a  little  while  so  as  not  to  be 
obliged  to  answer  any  questions — " 

"  An  excellent  idea,  Moffett,"  interrupted  the 
detective,  who  was  really  beginning  to  be  alarmed 
by  the  undue  agitation  of  the  affrighted  steward. 
"  But,  hold  on.  Wait  till  I  have  done  with  you. 
Where  are  the  women  folk  ?  " 

"  In  their  rooms,  sir,  upstairs." 

"  Umha  !  Do  you  happen  to  have  any  photo- 
graphs of  the  young  ladies  handy  ?  " 

"  There  are  some  in  the  parlor.     Yes,  sir." 

"Get  them  for  me.  Bring  them  here  immedi- 
ately." 

Moffett  hastened  out,  and  was  back  in  a  moment 
with  the  desired  articles. 

"  Umha !  And  this  roguish-looking  face  is 
Miss  Stella,  eh  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  She  doesn't  resemble  her  sister  much,  eh  ?  " 

"  That  has  been  often  remarked,  sir." 

Mr.  Lamm  might  have  said  further,  if  he  had 
deemed  it  proper,  that  they  were  two  remarkably 
pretty  girls.  There  were  a  brightness  and  a  sparkle 
about  the  younger  face  which  betrayed  at  once  the 
coquettish  and  laughter-loving  spirit  of  its  pos- 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  5 1 

sessor.  The  head  of  the  elder  was  of  a  classic  mould. 
There  was  something  of  the  Medea  expression  in 
the  regular  features.  It  was  a  trifle  too  stern — 
too  unyielding  in  its  outlines.  The  observer 
said  at  once,  "  That  woman  has  a  will  of  her 
own." 

When  Mr.  Lamm  had  made  sufficient  mental 
notes  upon  the  pictures,  he  returned  them  to  the 
servant,  and  they  were  immediately  replaced  in 
their  customary  repositories.  This  time  Mr.  Lamm 
made  so  bold  as  to  cautiously  accompany  the  but- 
ler to  the  front  of  the  house.  The  hush  of  a  great 
calamity  reigned  everywhere.  The  house  was 
built  on  a  terrace,  and  the  servants'  quarters  were 
on  the  floor  below.  That  particular  story  was 
deserted.  At  a  glance  the  detective  took  in  the 
possibilities  of  the  place.  All  the  rooms  opened 
from  the  wide  hallway,  separated  therefrom  by 
portfires.  This  was  excellent  for  his  designs,  if  he 
could  find  a  suitable  hiding-place.  His  restless  eye 
lighted  upon  a  stained-glass  window  at  the  back  of 
the  hall. 

"  What  is  back  of  that  ? "  he  whispered. 

"  Toilet  room,  sir." 

"  Is  that  window  movable  ? " 

"  I  believe  so,  sir ;  but  it  is  never  moved.'1 

"Where  does  that  room  open  from?" 

"  From  the  back  hall." 

"  Very  well,  Moffett.  I  will  lock  myself  in  there. 
If  there  are  any  inquiries,  you  have  accidentally 
twisted  the  key  off  in  the  lock,  and  will  go  for  a 


52  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

locksmith  to  repair  the  damage.     The  locksmith 
will  not  be  in.     You  understand." 

Moffett,  who  was  becoming  resigned  to  his  fate, 
though  his  teeth  still  exhibited  a  tendency  to 
chatter,  led  the  way  to  the  room.  Standing  upon 
a  chair,  the  detective  examined  the  window.  To 
his  delight  he  found  that  it  could  be  moved  up  and 
down.  He  took  the  liberty  of  making  a  narrow 
crevice  between  the  lower  sash  and  the  sill.  Reas- 
sured by  the  presence  of  another  window  opening 
upon  the  outer  world,  Mr.  Lamm,  who  was  quite 
alive  to  the  bold  risk  he  was  taking,  earnestly 
impressed  upon  Mr.  Moffett  the  necessity  for 
secrecy,  and  locked  himself  into  the  room. 

The  sound  of  a  key  turning  in  the  latch-lock  of 
the  front  door  brought  about  a  responsive  stir  from, 
the  story  above.  There  was  a  rustle  of  skirts,  and 
a  woman,  who  Lamm  imagined  had  been  watching 
at  a  window,  came  down  the  stairs  before  the  outer 
door  was  opened. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Stackhouse  !  "  It  was  a  querulous, 
tearful  woman's  voice,  and  spoke  in  one  of  those 
sibilant  whispers  that  distress  the  hearer  more  than 
would  the  loudest  of  tones.  "  Isn't  it  awful  ?  My 
poor  brother-in-law  !  Why  haven't  they  sent  the 
body  ?  It's  not  come  down  with  you  ?  Oh,  dear 
me,  dear  me,  it  seems  as  though  I  would  go  out  of 
my  head  !  Why,  Thornton,  Thornton,  you  don't 
know  half  what  I've  been  through  !  " 

Mr.  Stackhouse  placed  his  hat  and  coat  on  a  chair. 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  S3 

"  You  don't  know  what  I've  been  through,"  he 
said,  in  meaning  tones.  "  Why  is  the  house  shut 
up  like  this?  On  such  a  night  the  windows  at 
least  should  be  open.  Marion  and  Stella  are  up- 
stairs together,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes.  But,  oh,  you  don't  know  how  I 
worried  about  them  both.  And  then  the  dreadful 
news  of  poor  Paul's  death  came  on  top  of  my  trouble 
about  them.  It's  a  mercy  I'm  not  crazy  at  this 
moment." 

"  What  have  Marion  and  Stella  been  about,  eh  ?" 
asked  Stackhouse  sharply. 

"  Oh,  Thornton,  they  went  away  yesterday,  one 
after  another,  without  saying  a  word.  I  never 
knew  them  to  go  to  the  city  alone  that  way  before. 
And,  oh,  Thornton,  they  didn't  come  back  till  the 
late  train.  I  sat  up  for  them  with  the  creeps  all 
over  me  the  whole  evening.  And  such  strange 
actions  when  they  did  come  !  Stella  went  up  to 
her  room  crying.  Marion  wouldn't  say  a  word  to 
explain,  and  went  upstairs  looking — oh  !  so 
white  !  " 

"  Well,  well."  returned  Stackhouse  impatiently. 
"It's  of  no  particular  consequence.  We  have 
other  things  to  occupy  our  time  now." 

"  Yes,  indeed,  Thornton,"  said  Aunt  Comfort, 
with  a  sob.  She  was  a  portly  woman,  but  exceed- 
ingly nervous  and  fidgety  in  spite  of  her  size,  and 
she  made  half  a  hundred  purposeless  movements  in 
a  moment  when  excited.  "  Oh,  the  body  !  Where 
is  it  ?  You  must  go  straight  back  to  Boston  and 


54  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

get  it.  Those  body  snatchers  are  terribly  sly 
creatures.  Thornton,  did  you  read  in  yesterday's 
paper — " 

Mr.  Stackhouse  could  endure  no  more. 

"  Nonsense,  woman  ! "  he  interrupted  sternly. 
"  Leave  this  matter  to  me  and  attend  to  your  house- 
hold duties.  But  tell  me,"  he  added  immediately, 
in  a  voice  which  he  vainly  endeavored  to  render 
indifferent,  "  what  sent  the  girls  off  to  the  city 
yesterday  afternoon  ?  Did  you  observe  nothing  ? 
What  did  they  say?" 

"  Oh,  Thornton !  Hush !  They  are  com- 
ing." 

True  enough,  there  was  a  sound  of  a  door  clos- 
ing, the  rustle  of  skirts,  and  the  echo  of  voices 
simultaneously  floating  down  the  staircase  from  the 
region  above. 

Stackhouse  took  a  step  forward,  but  started  back 
immediately,  looking  upward  in  a  puzzled,  appre- 
hensive way. 

"  Oh,  don't !  don't !  don't !  I  beg  of  you, 
Marion.  On  my  knees  I  beg  of  you  !  " 

A  woman's  voice  raised  in  that  keen,  penetrating 
fashion  that  reveals  a  climax,  an  outburst  of  re- 
pressed emotion,  uttering  such  words  as  these, 
could  not  be  a  common  sound  in  such  a  house  as 
this.  Stackhouse,  whose  face  was  in  direct  line  of 
the  detective's  vision,  looked  as  if  a  bombshell  had 
burst  at  his  feet.  He  was  speechless  with  wonder 
and  dismay. 

"  Stella,"  returned  an  inflexible  voice,  "  I  com- 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  55 

mand  you  to  let  me  go.  I  know  what  my  duty  is, 
and  I  shall  do  it." 

The  other  woman  might  have  been  silenced  by 
fear  or  overawed  by  the  sternness  of  her  to  whom 
she  had  appealed,  for  she  made  no  further  outcry. 
The  footsteps  were  already  on  the  stairs  ;  a  white 
skirt  fluttered  by  the  railing.  Again  Stackhouse 
took  a  step  forward,  and  again  he  stopped.  It  may 
have  been  a  gesture  on  his  wife's  part  or  something 
that  he  saw  in  her  face.  Certain  it  is  that  he 
became  a  shade  whiter,  and  that  in  his  effort  to 
speak  his  tongue  seemed  to  cleave  to  the  roof  of 
his  mouth.  He  stammered  two  words  : 

"  Why,  Marion  !  " 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  !  Don't  touch  me  !  Never 
call  me  by  that  name  again  !  " 

The  tone  was  certainly  not  a  loud  one.  It  could 
not  be  said  that  there  was  a  theatrical  ring  about 
the  manner  of  enunciation.  The  words  were  low, 
distinct,  and  uttered  with  such  calm,  terrible  inten- 
sity that,  blase  as  he  was,  Detective  Lamm  experi- 
enced a  genuine  thrill.  He  felt  himself  in  the 
presence  of  a  remarkable  woman,  and  the  same 
sort  of  keen  and  breathless  interest  with  which  he 
had  followed  great  acting  on  the  stage  took  pos- 
session of  him. 

"  Oh,  Marion  !  "  It  was  the  sister  who  spoke, 
and  the  tone  was  quite  heart-broken  and  hopeless. 

Stackhouse  seemed  to  recover  from  his  tempo- 
rary paralysis. 

"  You  had  better  go  to  your  room,  Stella,"  he 


5  6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

said,  in  a  voice  but  barely  audible.  "  I  must  talk 
with  Marion  alone." 

"  Do  not  stir  a  step  ! "  commanded  the  other 
woman,  as  Stella  went  towards  the  door.  "  I  wish 
you  to  hear  what  little  I  have  to  say  to  this  man. 
You,  too,  Aunt  Comfort.  Don't  stand  in  the  door- 
way there,  looking  so  frightened.  Come  back. 
The  more  witnesses  the  better." 

The  defiant,  reckless  voice  that  spoke  was  that 
of  a  determined  woman  who  had  settled  her  mind 
to  a  purpose  and  who  would  follow  it  unswervingly 
if  it  brought  her  to  her  death. 

There  was  a  brief  interval,  marked  only  by 
Stella's  sobbing,  and  the  elder  woman's  wheezy 
ejaculations,  uttered  like  signal  guns  almost  every 
second. 

"  Marion  Stackhouse,  have  you  taken  leave  of 
your  senses  ? "  faltered  the  business  associate  of 
the  late  Paul  North. 

"  No,  I  have  just  found  them.  Do  not  dare  to 
associate  your  name  with  mine.  This  is  the  last 
time  I  will  ever  speak  to  you.  Witness,  Stella,  and 
you,  too,  Aunt  Comfort.  From  this  hour  we  live 
apart." 

"  But  Marion,"  interrupted  the  woman,  "  remem- 
ber your  promise  at  the  altar  !  You  are  not  feeling 
well,  and  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  On 
this  day,  too,  of  all  others,  when  your  poor 
father — " 

"  Stop,  Aunt  Comfort  !"  interposed  Marion,  im- 
periously. "You  do  not  know — how  is  it  possible 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  57 

you  should  know — the  terrible  cause  that  impels 
me.  My  contempt  for  this  man  whom  I  have  called 
husband — " 

"  What  fiend  possesses  you  ? "  interrupted  Stack- 
house,  unable  to  restrain  himself.  "  Called  your 
husband  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  A  name  is  all  I  need  to  speak,"  responded 
Marion,  scorn  and  contempt  expressed  in  every 
word  :  "  Marie  Moissot  !  " 

The  name  burst  from  Marion's  lips  like  the  ac- 
cusation of  an  avenging  angel.  It  is  probable 
that  Stackhouse  staggered  under  the  force  of  the 
blow.  Mr.  Lamm,  who,  without  an  instant's  delay, 
turned  his  attention  to  putting  that  queer-sounding 
name  upon  paper  ("  Marie  Moyso  "  he  wrote  it), 
did  not  see  him  again  for  a  brief  space  ;  and  in  that 
time  he  may  have  slightly  recovered  from  the  first 
violence  of  his  betrayed  emotions.  He  was  still 
agitated  enough  in  all  conscience.  This  man 
Thornton  Stackhouse,  whom  Lamm  well  knew  to 
be  in  his  ordinary  walk  of  life  no  more  self-betray- 
ing than  the  polished  surface  of  a  mirror,  had  been 
so  affected  and  overwhelmed  by  what  his  wife  had 
said  to  him  that  he  was  weaker  than  a  child.  He 
tried  to  shake  off  his  growing  terrors.  He  endeav- 
ored to  smile,  to  laugh,  to  pass  over  the  affair  as 
a  joke,  but  the  effort  was  a  ghastly  failure. 

"  Marion  !  "  he  murmured.  "  Marion  !  Who 
has  told  you  ?  What  scoundrel  has  maligned  me 
to  my  own  wife?" 

"  Silence,  sir  !     I  am   not  your  wife.     This  was 


58  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

my  father's  house.  Either  you  or  I  must  leave  it. 
Which  ?  Choose  this  minute." 

"  Marion  !  Calm  yourself,  I  beseech  you  ? 
Think  of  the  effect,  the  occasion,  the  time.  Who 
knows  what  people  would  say  ?" 

"  I  do  not  care,  sir.  If  you  do,  you  should  have 
thought  of  it  before.  It  is  too  late  now." 

He  turned  his  white  face  towards  her.  Lamm 
marked  plainly  in  the  ample  light  how  his  lips 
trembled,  how  his  eyes  gleamed. 

"  Marion,"  he  said  in  a  fierce  undertone,  "  are  you 
enough  mistress  of  yourself  to  think  what  my  leav- 
ing this  house  at  such  a  time  will  mean  to  the  gos- 
sips ?  Can  you  not  see  that  even  I  might  be  accused 
of  complicity  in  your  father's  death  ?  " 

"  And  who  should  be,  if  you  are  not  ?  "  the  wo- 
man retorted,  in  a  vibrant  tone  that  pierced  the 
detective's  ears  like  a  thunderbolt.  There  were 
simultaneous  cries  from  her  three  visible  auditors. 
The  detective  swallowed  his  emotion  with  a  painful 
effort.  He  had  participated  in  many  an  unexpected 
and  stirring  scene  in  his  time,  but  a  domestic  drama 
of  this  nature  in  a  house  like  this,  with  actors  such 
as  these,  filled  him  with  the  liveliest  amazement. 
Of  all  things  he  had  expected  or  hoped  for,  this 
was  certainly  the  last,  the  most  impossible. 

For  several  seconds  after  his  wife  had  delivered 
herself  of  this  terrible  taunt,  Thornton  Stackhouse 
seemed  vainly  endeavoring  to  articulate.  Then 
with  a  sudden  movement  he  seized  his  hat  and 
turned  to  the  door.  The  voice  which  now  came  to 


AN  UNBIDDEN  GUEST.  59 

him  was  so  unlike  his  natural  tones  that  Lamm 
would  not  have  recognized  it  had  the  speaker  been 
out  of  view. 

"  So  be  it  !  "  he  said.  "  Nobody  will  ever  know 
what  this  is  to  me  or  how  I  have  loved  you,  Marion. 
But  so  be  it.  If  my  own  wife  turns  from  me,  who 
will  have  mercy  on  me  ?  " 

The  door  opened  and  closed  violently  behind  the 
partner  of  the  late  Paul  North. 

Did  he  speak  for  effect  or  were  the  emotions  that 
inspired  his  words  genuine  ?  It  is  certain  that  the 
amazed  detective  became  strongly  prejudiced  in 
his  favor. 

There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  and  then  a  flut- 
ter of  skirts  and  a  white,  white  face  appeared  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs.  Lamm  knew  at  once  that 
that  proud,  imperious  countenance,  the  scornful 
red  mouth,  the  flashing  blue  eyes,  belonged  to 
Marion  Stackhouse.  But,  great  powers  !  could 
that  be  her  natural  expression  ?  And  then  he  saw 
what  was  the  matter.  She  reeled,  caught  at  the 
railing,  threw  up  her  arms,  and  fell  like  a  log  to 
the  floor. 

So  indeed  this  stoical  woman  was  made  of  flesh 
and  blood  ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

AND    WHO   IS   THE    AFORESAID   MARIE  ? 

"TVETECTIVE  JOHN  LAMM,  whose  experience 
LJ  had  rendered  his  views  of  life  rather  more 
broad  than  the  prosy  theorist  who  judges  the  world 
from  his  commonplace  associates,  was  not  unaware 
of  the  existence  of  the  emotional  drama  in  real  life. 
Too  often  had  it  been  his  melancholy  duty  to  draw 
aside  the  conventional  curtain  with  which  the  mem- 
ber of  modern  society  endeavors  to  conceal  his 
serious  affairs  from  the  eyes  of  his  neighbor,  and  to 
catch  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  contending  passions 
which  were  seething  about  the  presumably  quiet 
hearthstone. 

The  scene  which  he  had  just  witnessed  did  not 
therefore  seem  incredible  in  itself,  but  the  time  and 
circumstances  at  and  in  which  it  had  occurred  ren- 
dered it,  in  John  Lamm's  estimation,  of  a  most 
peculiar  and  astounding  nature.  As  yet  his  ideas 
were  too  disorderly  and  confused  to  enable  him  to 
draw  logical  deductions.  The  moment  had  not  yet 
come  for  theories  and  explanations.  He  could  only 
stand  still  with  bated  breath  and  rapid  pulse  and 
await  the  outcome  of  the  strange  situation. 

When  Marion  fainted,  Stella,  pale  and  trembling, 
60 


AND  WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?     61 

and  looking  very  unlike  her  smiling  and  roguish 
self,  as  the  photograph  had  proclaimed  her,  ran 
down  to  her  assistance,  and  while  Aunt  Comfort 
was  ambling  aimlessly,  wringing  her  fat  hands  and 
reflecting  audibly  that  she  couldn't  see  why  on 
earth  she  wasn't  already  crazy,  she  was  making  re- 
peated and  intelligent  efforts  at  restoration.  The 
sprinkling  of  water,  which  Stella  procured  without 
summoning  the  servants,  eventually  having  the 
effect  of  causing  the  eyelids,  upon  which  some  of 
the  drops  fell,  to  unclose,  Marion  murmured  some 
incoherent  words,  arose,  and  with  her  sister's 
help,  staggered  to  a  chair,  where  she  sat  for  several 
minutes  as  motionless  and  as  speechless  as  if  she 
had  been  in  a  trance.  Aunt  Comfort,  suddenly 
awakening  to  her  responsibilities,  ran  to  fan  her 
with  a  book  cover,  murmuring  continuously  sooth- 
ing and  reassuring  expressions. 

Marion  did  not  appear  to  notice  her,  though  the 
detective  saw  the  girl's  eyes  more  than  once  follow- 
ing her  sister's  motions  in  a  relentless,  questioning 
way.  Mr.  Lamm  hoped  for  some  conversation 
which  would  throw  light  on  the  dramatic  charade 
that  had  been  enacted  in  his  presence,  but  he  was 
disappointed.  Nothing'came  but  the  uninterrupted 
monologue  of  wheezy  Aunt  Comfort.  Neither  of 
the  sisters  spoke  other  than  in  monos)rllables,  until 
Marion,  suddenly  flushing  under  some  words  of  the 
elderly  lady  solicitous  for  Thornton  Stackhouse, 
said  imperiously  : 

"  Stop  !  stop !  I  tell  you  !     Not  another  word. 


62  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

This  house  was  not  his.  It  was  my  father's.  What- 
ever there  may  be  in  it  which  belongs  to  him  must 
be  sent  to  him.  If  he  ever  comes  here  again  I 
shall  go  away.  If  he  has  given  any  orders  con- 
cerning my  father's  funeral  they  must  be  counter- 
manded. It  would  be  a  sacrilege  which  I  could 
not  permit." 

Aunt  Comfort  seemed  to  be  too  much  alarmed  to 
make  any  reply  or  to  put  any  inquiry,  and  whatever 
remonstrance  Stella  had  to  offer  against  her  sis- 
ter's extraordinary  conduct  must  have  been  uttered 
before  the  arrival  of  Stackhouse,  for  it  was  evident 
that  she  had  become  hopelessly  resigned  to  the 
situation. 

A  ring  at  the  door  bell  fell  with  startling  effect 
upon  the  silence  of  the  house.  Stella  fled  precipi- 
tately to  the  upper  regions,  while  Aunt  Comfort, 
with  her  hand  on  her  heart,  stared  apprehensively 
at  the  door.  It  was  Marion  herself  who  waved 
back  the  advancing  servant  with  an  imperious 
gesture  and  went  resolutely  to  answer  the 
summons. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  Mr.  Lamm  exclaimed  within  him- 
self. "  It's  my  risky  client !  " 

And  behold  on  the  threshold,  hat  in  hand,  a  bit 
flushed  and  embarrassed,  and  with  an  expression 
of  lively  solicitude  as  befitted  the  occasion,  Mr. 
Richard  Fetridge  ! 

"  You  come  at  a  sad  time,  sir,"  murmured  Aunt 
Comfort,  walking  aimlessly  between  the  door  and 
the  staircase. 


AND   WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?     63 

"  I  am  very  glad  you  are  here,  Mr.  Fetridge," 
Marion  said,  in  collected  tones.  "  If  we  ever 
needed  a  friend,  it  is  at  this  moment." 

"  I  need  not  say  with  what  eagerness  I  shall  avail 
myself  of  any  opportunity  to  aid  you,  Mrs.  Stack- 
house,"  he  said  earnestly. 

She  looked  him  directly  in  the  eyes. 

"  Not  Mrs.  Stackhouse,  Marion  North." 

He  made  a  painful  effort  to  appear  unembar- 
rassed, but  it  was  quite  evident  that  he  was  gravely 
alarmed. 

"  You — you — know — "  he  stammered. 

"  Everything,"  she  returned,  with  a  forlorn,  bitter 
accent. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  ejaculated,  in  ill-concealed 
alarm.  "  Who  told  you  ?  " 

She  made  no  reply  in  words,  but  with  a  simple 
gesture  indicated  the  portiere  at  the  right.  In  a 
moment  the  two  people  had  disappeared  from  view, 
leaving  Aunt  Comfort  staring  like  a  petrified  figure 
in  a  museum  at  the  drawn  curtain.  She  was  awak- 
ened from  her  lethargy  by  the  voice  of  Stella 
calling  piteously  from  above. 

"  Oh  !  Aunt  Comfort  !  Do  come  here  !  Do 
come  here  !  " 

And  as  the  only  remaining  personage  in  the  field 
of  his  vision  disappeared,  John  Lamm,  detective, 
began  to  exhibit  sundry  signs  of  exasperation.  In 
vain  he  strained  his  listening  ears,  in  vain  he  ven- 
tured to  raise  the  sash  of  the  window  to  an  impru- 
dent degree.  Nothing  but  the  vague  murmur  of 


64  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

voices  and  the  occasional  distant  sound  of  sobbing 
rewarded  his  efforts. 

"  To  be  cut  off  at  such  a  point  as  this! "  he  fumed. 
"  I'd  enjoy  hanging  the  architect  who  put  such  a 
stupid  building  together  !  " 

There  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  to  con- 
jecture and  wait.  The  two  people  remained  in  the 
parlor  for  nearly  half  an  hour.  At  the  expiration 
of  that  time  the  impatient  watcher  saw  the  portiere 
disturbed  and  they  reappeared  in  the  hall.  Mr. 
Lamm  eagerly  marked  their  respective  appearances, 
hoping  thereby  to  construct  some  theory  of  the 
nature  of  their  interview.  Marion  was  very  pale, 
cold,  determined,  collected.  Fetridge  bore  traces 
of  unwonted  agitation.  His  face  was  flushed  ;  his 
hand  unsteady. 

She  accompanied  him  to  the  door.  He  had 
opened  it,  when  he  turned  impulsively  and  said, 
appealingly : 

"  Marion,  wont  you  reconsider  your  unhappy 
resolution  and  make  a  confidant  of  me  ? " 

"  Richard  Fetridge,  you  ought  to  understand  me 
well  enough  by  this  time  to  know  that  I  never  go 
any  other  way  than  straight  ahead.  I  do  not  act 
on  impulse,  but  from  determination." 

He  seemed  abashed  for  some  reason.  His  eyes 
were  turned  towards  the  floor  at  her  feet. 

"  It  was  only  for  your  good,"  he  murmured. 
"  And  I  shall  still  continue  to  do  everything  in  my 
power  to  make  the  terrible  blow  easier  for  you." 

He  bowed  constrainedly,  glanced  furtively  up  the 


AND   WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?     65 

staircase  as  if  he  hoped  to  see  another  face,  and 
went  out.  The  door  closed. 

Marion  caught  her  breath,  set  her  teeth  together, 
clinched  her  fists,  and  stood  motionless  looking  at 
the  carpet. 

"  I'd  give  five  hundred  dollars  to  know  what  that 
girl  is  thinking  of,"  thought  the  detective  ;  "  she 
can  assume  the  most  unpleasant  expression  for  a 
handsome  woman  I  ever  saw.  And,  hang  me,  if  I 
shouldn't  dislike  to  be  in  a  position  dependent  on 
her  and  incur  her  enmity.  She  would  sting  like  a 
serpent  the  man  who  attempted  to  throttle  her." 

The  fair  woman  with  the  Medea  face  did  not 
remain  long  the  subject  of  his  critical  contempla- 
tion. Slowly,  and  in  the  same  thoughtful  attitude, 
she  began  with  firm  step  to  ascend  the  staircase, 
and  soon  vanished  from  John  Lamm's  sight  and 
hearing. 

That  gentleman  rapidly  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  there  was  nothing  further  to  be  gained  by 
longer  remaining  in  his  precarious  hiding-place. 
Carefully  closing  the  window,  he  turned  the  key  in 
the  lock,  and  was  preparing  to  leave  by  way  of  the 
door,  when  he  stopped  suddenly  under  the  spell  of 
a  new  idea.  He  remained  inactive  just  long  enough 
to  consider  the  feasibility  of  the  proposition.  It 
was  a  bold  step  to  take,  but  bold  steps,  to  the  verge 
of  recklessness  sometimes,  were  those  by  which  he 
had  achieved  his  present  eminence  in  his  profession. 
In  two  minutes  his  mind  was  made  up.  Instead 
of  leaving  by  the  door,  he  first  made  sure  that  the 


66  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

coast  was  clear,  and  then  got  out  of  the  window, 
and  walked  rapidly  around  the  corner  to  the  front 
entrance. 

He  pulled  authoritatively  at  the  bell.  After  a 
short  delay  the  summons  was  answered  by  the  still 
tremulous  Moffett. 

"  I  am  sorry,  man,"  said  Mr.  Lamm,  "  but  I 
must  see  the  ladies  after  all.  Give  my  card  to 
Miss  Harwood,  please." 

Moffett  accepted  the  proffered  piece  of  paste- 
board, on  which  was  engraved  : 


DlLLINGHAM. 

Police  Detective. 

Aunt  Comfort  responded,  breathless  and  asth- 
matic. She  invited  John  Lamm  into  the  recep- 
tion-room. With  quiet  dignity  the  detective  pro- 
ceeded  to  apologize  and  to  reassure  her.  He 
regretted  the  necessity  which  forced  him  to  call  at 
such  a  time,  and  enlarged  upon  the  great  service 
she  might  do  the  cause  of  justice  by  making  him 
acquainted  with  whatsoever  facts  of  any  possible 
bearing  on  the  motive  for  the  murder  that  might 
be  in  her  possession.  It  was  useless.  At  another 
time  the  amiable  housekeeper  might  have  filled  his 
note-book  with  unconscious  revelations  ;  but  there 
is  a  point  beyond  which  garrulousness  becomes 
complete  idiocy,  and  it  is  little  exaggeration  to  say 
that  the  terrible  events  of  the  day  had  carried 


AND   WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?     67 

Aunt  Comfort  over  the  limit.  There  was  abso- 
lutely nothing  to  be  got  from  her  but  tears  and 
gasps  and  interjections.  The  idea  of  calling  upon 
Mrs.  Stackhouse  to  present  the  case  was  an  inspir- 
ation to  her  and  a  relief  to  the  patient  Lamm. 

It  is  true  that  he  awaited  the  coming  of  Marion 
with  some  compunctions  and  no  little  curiosity. 
The  young  lady  entered  the  room  haughtily,  and 
looked  at  him  in  a  distant,  unemotional  way. 

"  Did  you  desire  my  presence,  sir?" 

"  If  you  please,  madam,"  said  John  Lamm ; 
"and  also  that  of  your  sister,  if  it  be  possible." 

"My  sister,"  she  returned  quickly,  "is  alto- 
gether too  young  to  be  of  any  use  to  you  in  such 
an  emergency.  Nor  do  I  choose  to  have  her  dis- 
turbed at  such  a  time." 

"  I  bow  to  your  superior  judgment,  madam. 
You  understand  that  I  am  a  simple  officer  of  the 
law  with  the  single  purpose  of  doing  my  duty.  I 
wish  to  do  it  with  as  little  anoyance  to  the  family 
as  possible." 

"  What  do  you  wish,  sir  ?  I  do  not  see  how  any- 
body in  this  house  can  aid  you.  We  know  noth- 
ing of  this  crime  but  the  awful  fact,  and  it  does 
seem  that  at  such  a  time  the  police  might  do  their 
duty  without  intruding  into  the  circle  of  the 
bereaved  family." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Lamm,  humbly  but  respect- 
fully, as  he  stood  before  her,  turning  his  hat  in  his 
uneasy  hands.  "  The  affair  is  a  mystery.  We 
desire  to  arrest  the  guilty  parties.  Often  the  rela- 


68  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

lives  in  such  cases  have  strong  reasons  for  suspi- 
cions." 

"  We  have  none,"  returned  Marion  decisively. 

"  No,  indeed  !  "  corroborated  Aunt  Comfort. 
"  The  idea  of  such  a  thing  !  " 

"  You  are  utterly  unaware  of  any  possible  motive 
for  this  crime  ?  " 

Intentionally  Detective  Lamm  cast  a  keen,  search- 
ing glance  full  into  the  face  of  the  stoical  young 
woman.  His  idea  was  to  intimidate  rather  than  to 
observe  her,  for  he  had  a  furtive  way  of  scrutiniz- 
ing people  without  appearing  to  do  so.  It  was  in- 
effective. Not  even  her  eyelashes  quivered. 

"  Utterly,"  she  said  firmly.  "  And  now,  sir,  are 
you  satisfied  ? " 

"  Unfortunately,  no,"  said  Lamm,  glancing  un- 
easily at  Aunt  Comfort.  "  Could  I — would  it  be 
presumptuous  in  me — to  ask  for  a  private  inter- 
view ?" 

Marion  drew  a  full  breath.  There  was  a  slight 
quiver  as  she  did  so,  which  seemed  to  indicate  that 
her  calmness  was  the  result  of  rigid  expressions  of 
her  spontaneous  emotions.  She  motioned  Aunt 
Comfort  towards  the  hall. 

"  Well,  sir  ?  "  she  said  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 
John  Lamm  saw  that  she  had  no  intention  of  pro- 
longing the  interview.  He  resolved  to  break  the 
ice  of  her  reserve  with  one  fell  crush. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  said,  without  preface,  "  who  is 
Marie  Moyso  ? " 

She  could  not  repress  the  start  nor  the  tell-tale 


AND   WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?     69 

blush  that  rose  into  her  cheeks.  But  she  made  a 
brave  effort  which  aroused  John  Lamm's  unspoken 
admiration. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  "  Only  this  in  a  faint  voice, 
as  a  response  to  this  unexpected  bombshell. 

"  What  grit  that  girl  has  ! "  was  John  Lamm's 
unuttered  comment.  Her  question,  however, 
warned  him  that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice, 
the  other  side  of  which  he  could  not  see.  Still, 
with  his  accustomed  audacity,  he  took  the  leap  in 
the  dark. 

"  Because,"  he  said  boldly,  "  there  is  reason  to 
believe  that  such  a  woman  is  mixed  up  in  this 
affair." 

"  Ah  !  "  she  returned  coldly, "I  know  nothing  of 
her.  Really,  Mr.  Officer,  you  must  excuse  me  if 
you  have  nothing  more  to  say  than  this.  The 
occasion  is  too  grave — too  solemn.  You  should  go 
to  Mr.  North's  partner,  Mr.  Stackhouse.  He  can 
tell  you  more  about  it  than  anybody  else." 

Did  she  mean  to  give  these  last  words  a  special 
emphasis  ?  The  detective  was  not  sure,  but  he 
saw  that  it  would  be  more  than  useless  to  prolong 
the  interview.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  that 
Marion  Stackhouse  was  impervious  to  surprise  and 
inaccessible  to  an  ordinary  appeal.  Before  he 
could  hope  to  penetrate  that  armor  he  would  be 
obliged  to  prepare  himself  with  a  host  of  facts  of 
which  he  was  now  ignorant.  So  he  took  his  leave 
with  the  best  grace  possible,  and  once  more  breathed 
the  freer  air  of  the  quiet  streets.  Unquestionably 


70  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

it  was  a  relief  to  get  out  of  that  house  with  its  mys- 
terious secrets  and  its  unlaid  ghosts. 

"  She  is  one  woman  in  ten  thousand  !  "  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  as  he  walked  away.  "  At  her  age 
such  self-command  is  as  uncommon  as  a  lottery 
prize.  Well,  we'll  try  again." 

Some  inquiries  assured  him  that  it  was  not  far  to 
the  seaside  residence  of  Richard  Fetridge.  In  five 
minutes  after  leaving  Marion's  presence  he  was 
bowing  before  the  astonished  Fetridge,  whom  he 
met  on  the  veranda  overlooking  the  ocean. 

"  You  here  ?  " 

"  So  it  would  seem,  Mr.  Fetridge." 

"  And  what  can  you  have  discovered  so 
soon  ? " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  It  is  a  simple  clue  and  may  not 
lead  to  much.  Still  I  must  beg  leave  to  ask  your 
assistance.  I  wish  to  put  a  question,  stipulating 
that  you  do  not  ask  me  any  in  return.  You  see,  I 
am  not  ready  to  make  a  report  yet." 

Fetridge  slightly  frowned.  Evidently  he  did  not 
relish  mysteries. 

"  Ask  your  question,  Mr.  Lamm." 

"  Who  is  Marie  Moyso  ? " 

Fetridge  sprang  up  with  a  force  that  overturned 
his  chair. 

"  The  deuce  !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  How  came  you 
by  that  name  ?  " 

"  Ho,  ho ! "  quoth  John  Lamm  in  his  mind. 
"  This  gentleman  does  not  guard  his  secrets  so  well 
as  the  lady  yonder." 


AND   WHO  IS  THE  AFORESAID  MARIE?      7 1 

"  I  must  remind  you.  Mr.  Fetridge,"  he  returned, 
quietly,  "  that  you  were  not  to  ask  questions.  Still, 
I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  the  woman  seems  to 
be  in  some  way  connected  with  our  friend  Stack- 
house." 

"  Humph  !  I  shall  begin  to  regard  you  as  a  wizard, 
rather  than  a  detective,  Mr.  Lamm,"  Fetridge  re- 
marked, with  an  effort  to  conceal  his  astonishment. 
"  I  must  say  I  cannot  conceive  by  what  possibility 
you  become  possessed  of  that  name.  But  since 
you  have,  I  must  remind  you  that  you  are  working 
for  me,  and  that  whatever  information  you  obtain 
ends  with  me.  Nobody  beyond  us  is  to  know  a 
syllable.  You  understand  that  ?  " 

"  I  should  be  wholly  ignorant  of  my  business  if 
I  did  not." 

"  Very  well.     But  about  this  Moissot  woman — " 

"  And,  by  the  way,  how  do  you  spell  that,  Mr. 
Fetridge  ? " 

Fetridge  spelled  the  name  and  Mr.  Lamm  wrote 
it  down,  smiling  at  his  own  mistake. 

"  French?" 

"  It's  a  Creole  name,  I  believe." 

"  Oh,  to  be  sure.  And  have  you  any  idea  of  her 
whereabouts  at  this  time  ? " 

"  She  was  in  New  York  five  years  ago.  I  cannot 
say — though  Mr.  Stackhouse,  who  may  find  it  con- 
venient to  keep  track  of  her,  perhaps  can — what 
has  become  of  her." 

The  two  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"Well,"  said  Fetridge,  impatiently,  "why  do  you 


72  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

ask  me  this  ?  What  possible  connection  can  she 
have  with  this  case  ?" 

Not  caring  to  betray  himself  by  answering  this 
question,  John  Lamm  deemed  it  prudent  to  with- 
draw. 

"  I  have  barely  time  to  catch  the  train  back,"  he 
exclaimed,  hurriedly  glancing  at  his  watch  in  the 
fading  light.  "  I'll  talk  with  you  later,  Mr.  Fetridge." 

And  he  was  off  at  once  at  an  energetic  pace. 
But  he  did  not  leave  Swampscott  till  he  had  made 
Mr.  Moffett  his  firm  friend. 

John  Lamm  was  not  one  of  the  sort  to  let  grass 
grow  under  his  feet  or  to  neglect  any  clue,  however 
unlikely,  which  could  possibly  bring  him  to  success 
in  an  important  quest. 

When  at  last,  after  a  long  conference  with  the 
"  inside  man  "  of  the  late  Paul  North,  he  was  in  the 
train  on  his  way  back  to  the  city,  he  began  writing 
an  advertisement  to  be  forwarded  to  a  correspond- 
ent in  New  York  for  insertion  in  the  daily  papers 
there. 

"  MARIE  MOISSOT  ! — Any  information  as  to 
whereabouts  of  Marie  Moissot  will  be  liberally 
rewarded  by  the  undersigned.  The  lady  herself 
will  learn  something  to  her  advantage  by  address- 
ing  , ." 

"It's  a  slim  chance,"  muttered  the  detective, 
"  but  still  it  may  lead  to  something." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LIFE    AFTER    DEATH. 

AT  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  of  this  same  Fri- 
day, medical  examiner  Jarrett  sat  at  his  desk 
in  the  office  at  his  house  busily  writing. 

"  Upon  making  a  careful  and  complete  examina- 
tion of  the  body  of  the  man  named  Paul  North,  I 
find  that  a  ball,  probably  fired  from  a  revolver  of 
32  calibre,  at  an  angle  of  probably  20  degrees,  and 
from  a  distance  not  exceeding  three  feet,  entered 
his  back  near  the  spinal  column  at  the  seventh  inter- 
costal space  on  the  right  side,  and  passed  in  an 
inward  and  upward  direction,  going  through  the 
upper  portion  of  the  liver  and  completely  through 
the  lower  lobe  of  the  right  lung. 

"  The  path  of  the  ball  was  not  arrested,  showing 
that  it  was  fired  in  the  direction  indicated.  It 
pierced  the  lung  nearly  opposite  the  third  rib  and 
left  the  body  on  the  front  side,  just  above  the  rib 
named. 

"  I  do  not  find  that  the  said  Paul  North  could 
have  committed  suicide.  The  position  of  the 
entrance  of  the  ball,  and  its  direction,  seemed  to 
deny  this  possibility. 

"  There  was  ample  external  haemorrhage  to  have 
73 


74  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

permitted  the  man  to  have  written  the  words  on 
the  wall  of  the  room  in  which  he  was  found.  If  so, 
immediately  the  writing  was  concluded,  he  no  doubt 
died. 

"  Death  was  painless,  and  resulted  from  internal 
haemorrhage,  caused  by  the  opening  of  an  artery  in 
the  right  lung." 

The  ringing  of  the  office  bell  suspended  the  report 
of  the  autopsy  over  Paul  North's  body  at  this  point. 

Dr,  Jarrett  rose  to  meet  his  caller,  recognizing 
him  at  once  as  the  reporter  whom  he  had  met  a  few 
hours  previously  at  the  house  in  Marlboro  Street. 

"Ah,  Thomas,"  he  said,  "  still  on  the  case,  eh? 
A  very  good  story,  that  of  yours  in  the  afternoon 
paper — very  judicious  indeed." 

"  Thanks,"  the  reporter  answered.  "And  now  I 
want  you  to  help  me  get  out  an  equally  good  story, 
or  a  better  one,  for  the  morning.  The  autopsy 
was  performed  at  the  City  Hospital  morgue,  of 
course.  Can't  you  give  me  the  report  ? " 

Dr.  Jarrett  shook  his  head  and  rubbed  his  chin. 

"  There  isn't  a  man  I  would  sooner  give  out  the 
report  to  than  you,  Thomas,  but  it  wouldn't  do  to 
have  it  published  before  it's  submitted.  All  I  can 
say  at  this  point  really  is  that  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever  that  murder  has  been  committed." 

Mr.  Thomas  fingered  his  watch  chain. 

"  Not  a  word  more  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,  Thomas,"  the  medical 
examiner  answered,  after  a  meditative  turn  up  and 
down  the  hall.  "  You  have  kept  a  good  many  im- 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  75 

portant  secrets  when  the  work  of  the  authorities 
couldn't  have  been  done  without  your  silence.  I'll 
tell  you  who  assisted  in  the  autopsy.  You  could 
interview  him  without  mentioning  my  name  in  the 
matter." 

A  broad  smile  illumined  the  reporter's  face,  and 
he  presented  the  medical  examiner  with  a  very 
comprehensive  wink. 

"  Dr.  Francis  Huntress  is  the  man,"  continued 
the  examiner,  confidentially.  "  He  has  an  office 
where  he  lives,  at  No.  —  Greenwich  Park." 

"  I  know  him  well,"  said  Mr.  Thomas,  as  he 
parted  from  the  doctor  ;  and  there  was  full  justifi- 
cation for  the  words  in  the  friendly  greeting 
accorded  to  him  at  the  surgeon's  door. 

Two  minutes  after  he  had  pulled  at  the  bell 
handle,  Thomas  was  comfortably  ensconced  in  an 
easy-chair  in  the  doctor's  study,  the  physician  sit- 
ting opposite  to  him  at  his  desk,  where  a  drop  light 
burned. 

"You  are  the  most  extraordinary  fellow,"  the 
surgeon  exclaimed,  admiringly,  after  Thomas  had 
stated  his  mission.  "  Some  of  the  morgue  people 
must  have  told  you  I  was  called  in.  No  ?  Well, 
never  mind — we'll  assume  you  divined  it,  as  you 
have  a  hundred  other  matters  supposed  to  be  the 
most  profound  of  secrets.  But  I'll  tell  you  one 
one  thing,  my  black-haired  friend.  This  is  one  of 
the  most  curious  and  remarkable  cases  that  ever 
came  to  my  attention  !  " 

"  You  have  no  doubt  it  was  a  case  of  murder  ? " 


7 6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

questioned  Mr.  Thomas,  busy  with  his  watch 
charm. 

"I  can  find  no  other  explanation.  You  saw  the 
wound  ;  you  noticed  how  the  man  lay  ?  Now  the 
bullet  was  a  32-calibre  pistol  ball.  It  entered  at 
an  angle  of  certainly  no  less  than  twenty  degrees, 
and  went  upwards  and  inwards  in  that  direction. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  observed  any  traces  of 
powder  on  the  man's  clothing  ? " 

"No." 

"  They  were  there,  nevertheless.  And  that  means 
that  the  pistol  from  which  the  fatal  shot  was  fired 
couldn't  have  been  held  more  than  three  feet  away. 
At  the  same  time  we  concluded  it  must  have  been 
more  than  two.  And  this,  you  see,  effectually  dis- 
poses of  the  theory  of  suicide." 

"  An  angle  of  twenty  degrees,  you  say,  doctor  ?  " 

"  About  that — not  exactly." 

"  Then  the  pistol  was  fired  behind  the  man's 
back  ;  and  was  held  at  what  height  from  the 
floor  ? " 

"  Very  easily  reckoned.  About  two  and  a  half 
feet  from  the  floor." 

"  That's  curious,"  said  Thomas,  with  a  puzzled 
air  ;  "  but  the  angle  of  twenty  degrees  explains 
what  I  couldn't  understand.  And  that  is  why  the 
bullet  should  have  entered  the  wall  at  a  height  of 
ten  feet  from  the  floor." 

''Indeed  !  "  exclaimed  the  surgeon,  greatly  inter- 
ested ;  "  well,  now,  if  you've  got  the  lateral  angle 
of  that  bullet,  since  we  already  have  the  upward 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  77 

angle  of  it,  it  is  a  simple  mathematical  problem  to 
decide  just  where  Paul  North  stood  when  the  shot 
was  fired." 

Thomas  drew  a  roll  of  paper  from  his  pocket. 
Separating  from  a  curled-up  photographer's  proof 
the  proof  of  a  compositor,  he  spread  it  out  upon 
the  surgeon's  desk.  It  was  his  diagram  of  the  sec- 
ond floor  of  the  house  in  Marlboro  Street. 

"  There,  doctor,"  he  said,  pointing  with  his  pen- 
cil to  the  center  of  the  space  between  the  two 
doors  at  the  back  of  the  library  ;  "  that  is  about 
the  point  where  the  bullet  entered.  The  cartridge 
end  of  the  ball  was  intact,  and  protruded  from  the 
wall,  pointing  like  the  end  of  a  finger  backwards 
and  downwards  in  a  direction  that  would  bring  us 
very  near  the  writing  desk  in  the  corner  by  the 
bay-window." 

"  How  far  distant  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  about  fifteen  feet." 

The  surgeon  made  a  brief  mathematical  calcula- 
tion. 

"  Roughly  speaking,"  he  said,  "  there  is  a  rise  of 
about  six  inches  to  a  foot  in  an  angle  of  twenty 
degrees.  Starting  with  a  point  two  and  a  half  feet 
from  the  floor  the  remaining  seven  feet  and  a  half 
necessary  to  attain  the  height  of  ten  feet  would  be 
gained  in  a  horizontal  measurement  of  just  about 
fifteen  feet." 

"  Capital !  "  exclaimed  Thomas,  who  saw  the 
force  of  this  at  once.  "  It  follows  inevitably  that 
the  murderer  must  have  fired  from  a  point  near  the 


78  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

writing-desk,  and  that  North  stood  three  or  four 
feet  this  side  of  the  desk,  facing  the  wall." 

"  Or  better  still,  facing  the  door  near  where  he 
was  found." 

"  Just  as  if,"  said  the  reporter,  "  somebody  there 
had  called  to  him  or  startled  him  so  that  he  turned 
away  from  his  assailant  for  the  moment." 

"  And  the  murderer  had  been  sitting  before  the 
writing-desk.  Exactly." 

Thomas  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  All  this  sounds  very  well,  doctor,"  he  said  ; 
"  but  it's  too  mathematical  to  be  true.  Things 
don't  happen  that  way.  The  bullet  may  have  been 
deflected  in  its  course." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  could  have  been." 

"  Oh,  gracious  !  don't  attempt  to  account  for 
the  conduct  of  bullets,"  said  Thomas  ;  "  the  police 
departments  are  full  of  the  most  curious  records  of 
their  freaks.  Sometimes  the  most  deadly  ball  will 
fail  to  do  its  work — especially  if  held  too  near  the 
victim.  One  man,  it  is  said,  attempted  to  commit 
suicide  by  holding  the  pistol  muzzle  against  his 
forehead.  If  he  had  held  it  a  little  way  off  it 
would  have  blown  his  brains  out.  As  it  was,  the 
bullet  flattened  itself  and  slid  off  harmlessly.  And 
as  an  instance  of  the  power  of  a  spent  ball,  I  may 
cite  the  case  of  that  East  Boston  woman  a  short 
time  ago,  who  was  killed  while  frying  doughnuts  at 
her  kitchen  stove,  by  a  bullet  fired  by  a  guard  on 
duty  at  the  Navy  Yard  a  mile  away.  To  enter  the 
house  the  bullet  bored  its  way  through  the  whole 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  79 

thickness  of  the  window-sash  and  went  clean 
through  her  besides." 

"  So  you  would  consider  it  nothing  astonishing 
that  the  bullet  in  this  case,  after  passing  completely 
through  North's  body,  should  still  have  the  strength 
to  bury  itself  in  the  wall." 

"  No,"  said  Thomas ;  "  though  I  should  say 
unhesitatingly  that  it  was  no  toy  pistol.  And  now, 
doctor,  I  want  to  ask  you  two  or  three  questions. 
In  the  first  place,  isn't  it  within  the  possibilities  of 
medical  science  to  determine  just  how  long  a  man 
has  been  dead  ?" 

"  Anywhere  within  twenty-four  or  thirty-six 
hours,  probably  yes." 

"  With  how  much  accuracy  ?  " 

"  Well,  possibly  within  an  hour." 

"  As  close  as  that  ? " 

"  I  believe  that  most  surgeons  and  physicians 
accept  the  proposition  of  an  eminent  surgeon  and 
chemist  who  stated  a  few  years  ago  tha".  the  day 
will  come  when  we  may  first  determine  the  general 
health  of  the  subject  by  examination  of  the  other 
organs,  and  then  submit  the  clotted  blood  in  the 
heart  to  microscopic  tests.  The  blood,  you  know, 
is  made  up  of  three  parts — the  serum,  and  the  red 
and  white  corpuscles.  The  red  corpuscles  contain 
the  life.  That  life  remains  for  several  days  after 
death  if  the  body  is  without  disease  to  induce  over- 
rapid  decomposition.  The  length  of  time  which 
has  elapsed  since  the  heart  ceased  to  beat  may  be 
determined  by  the. amount  of  life  in  the  red  cor- 


8o  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

puscles.  The  same  test  is  also  applied  to  tiie  con- 
tents of  the  other  vessels." 

"  Have  those  tests  been  applied  in  this  case, 
doctor  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  merely  as  an  experiment  to  compare 
with  the  other  tests  applied.  I  am  happy  to  say 
they  showed,  in  a  measure,  the  probable  reliability 
of  the  theory." 

"  And  what  were  those  other  tests  ?" 

"  Most  bodies  become  quite  cold  in  from  eight 
to  twelve  hours  after  death.  In  the  cases  of  bodies 
which  present  certain  signs  that  I  need  not  detail, 
we  know  that  death  has  not  been  present  more  than 
twelve  hours.  In  from  twelve  to  eighteen  hours, 
however,  the  eyeballs  become  soft  and  inelastic  and 
feel  flaccid.  The  last  sign  of  the  earliest  stage  of 
death  is  the  rigor  mortis.  This  is,  perhaps,  the 
most  dependable  of  the  signs  we  have  to  guide  us 
at  present.  Of  course,  the  rigidity  of  the  body 
may  continue  beyond  a  week,  but  the  circumstances 
which  would  occasion  this  would  be  too  extra- 
ordinary to  be  unnoticed.  Considering  all  these 
things,  I  should  repeat  that  the  length  of  time  which 
Mr.  North  has  been  dead  is  tolerably  certain." 

"  And  from  this,  when  did  you  determine  that 
Mr.  North  had  died  ? " 

"  Perhaps  Dr.  Jarrett  would  object  to  my  giving 
that  information  to  the  press,"  said  the  surgeon, 
hesitatingly. 

"  Then  don't  give  it  to  the  press.    Give  it  to  me." 

Thomas  smiled  insinuatingly. 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  8 1 

"  And  you— what  will  you  do  with  it  ?" 

"  Compare  it  with  such  other  information  as  I 
already  possess,  to  see  if  my  suspicions  are  correct." 

"  You  suspect  somebody." 

"  Everybody." 

The  surgeon  laughed,  and  Thomas  laughed  with 
him.  There  was  a  quiet  air  of  unassuming  ability 
and  a  strength  of  character  about  the  newspaper 
man  which  asserted  itself  to  everybody  of  sufficient 
discernment  to  appreciate  such  a  fact  before  he 
had  been  in  their  presence  five  minutes.  The  sur- 
geon, moreover,  knew  him  to  be  a  man  of  his 
word. 

"Then  I  understand  that  this  communication  is 
confidential?"  he  asked. 

"  Decidedly,  for  the  present." 

"  In  that  case,  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  we 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Mr.  North  was  shot 
between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  last  night." 

The  reporter  repeated  the  sentence  word  for 
word  to  be  sure  there  was  no  mistake,  and  rolled 
the  pendant  to  his  watch  chain  rapidly  between  his 
fingers. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  the  surgeon,  whose  atten- 
tion was  directed  towards  the  glistening  white 
trifle. 

"  That  ?  "  said  the  reporter,  glancing  down  and 
up  again  with  a  quaint  smile.  "  That's  a  souvenir 
of  a  case  I  worked  on  once.  It  was  a  woman's  tooth, 
I  suspect,  at  one  time.  It  was  a  sort  of  a  clue 
which  I  followed  to  success,  while  the  rest —  But 


82  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

it  don't  matter.  It's  an  interesting  story,  so  I  wont 
get  started  on  it.  I'm  not  so  sure  the  North  case 
wont  equal  it.  Of  course,  you  know  about  that 
strange  writing  on  the  wall  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  was  the  answer  ;  "  Dr.  Jarrett  said  there 
was  no  doubt  that  a  name  was  scrawled  there,  and 
that  the  writing  was  in  blood." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  North  could  have  written  it 
himself  ?  " 

"  Well,  that's  a  leading  question,"  answered  the 
surgeon,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  "  I  did 
not  see  the  writing." 

"  No  ?  "  said  Thomas.  He  unrolled  the  photog- 
rapher's proof.  "  Well,  there  it  is — natural  size, 
just  as  it  looks." 

The  surgeon  scrutinized  the  scrawl  with  great 
interest. 

"Well,  this  is  most  extraordinary,"  he  said. 
"  Why,  you  can  plainly  mark  how  many  times  he 
was  obliged  to  dip  his  finger  by  the  corresponding 
heaviness  of  outline.  Observe  the  S,  the  a,  the  h, 
and  finally  the  letter  following  the  u,  where  his 
strength  seems  suddenly  to  have  deserted  him  and 
the  finger  dragged  downwards.  That  makes  four 
times." 

"  Yes,  if  he  wrote  it,"  said  Thomas.  "  But  how 
about  that,  doctor  ? " 

"  There  is,  at  least,  no  conclusive  reason  why  he 
might  not  have  written  it  himself.  It  was  certainly 
done  with  his  forefinger.  A  careful  examination  of 
the  end  of  that  finger  convinces  me  that  it  had  not 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  83 

only  been  dipped  in  blood,  but  thereafter  drawn 
over  a  surface  while  wet.  The  difference  in  the 
degree  of  the  stain  at  different  parts  of  the  finger 
indicates  that.  How  far  above  the  floor  is  this 
writing?  " 

"  Just  about  a  foot  and  a  half.  It  is  a  tinted 
wall,  and  the  writing  is  immediately  above  the  foot- 
board." 

In  his  interest  the  surgeon  actually  left  his  chair 
and  got  down  upon  his  side  by  his  study  wall,  and, 
raising  himself  slightly  on  his  right  elbow,  began  to 
trace  with  the  forefinger  of  his  right  hand. 

"  Just  the  right  height,"  he  said.  "  Was  the 
writing  horizontal  ?  Did  it  run  just  parallel  with 
the  footboard  ?" 

"Just  about." 

"  If  a  man  had  directed  this  writing  from  a 
higher  point,  Thomas,  he  would  have  written  back 
handed.  How  was  the  slope  of  the  letters  ?  " 

"  Natural." 

"  And  have  you  seen  any  specimens  of  North's 
handwriting  ?  Does  he  form  his  letters  that  way  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  as  nearly  as  could  be  expected  under  the 
circumstances." 

"  Then  I  should  say,"  said  the  surgeon,  rising, 
"  that  it  is  more  than  probable  that  North  wrote  it." 

"  But  with  a  wound  like  that,"  suggested  the 
reporter,  "  death  must  have  been  instantaneous." 

"  Ah,  there  you  have  failed  to  distinguish  between 
speedy  death  and  instantaneous  death.  What  is 
commonly  called  instantaneous  death — from  a  shot 


84  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

in  the  heart,  for  instance — is  by  no  means  such.  A 
second  is  an  hour  to  a  dying  man.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  severing  of  the  spinal  column  by  a  bullet 
would  actually  cut  a  thought  in  two.  Man  goes 
into  the  presence  of  his  Maker  under  such  circum- 
stances without  an  instant  to  prepare  himself.  But 
in  a  case  like  North's,  we  must  take  into  con- 
sideration the  power  of  the  human  will  to  prolong 
life." 

"  To  defer  the  moment  of  death  ? "  asked  the 
reporter,  incredulously. 

"  Certainly.  A  man  shot  through  the  heart  often 
has  time  to  cry  out  a  sentence.  The  incredible 
swiftness  of  thought  in  the  hour  of  mortal  peril  has 
been  attested  by  the  mouths  of  hundreds  of 
witnesses.  Rescued  from  impending  death  by  some 
providential  good  fortune,  they  have  declared  that 
they  lived  over  the  events  of  a  lifetime  in  a  few 
seconds." 

"  But  this  writing  on  the  wall  was  not  an  act  of 
memory." 

"  No.  But  with  thought  in  a  man  of  strong 
purpose  would  come  quick  determination  and  the 
power  to  act,  even  at  that  moment.  You  must  bear 
in  mind  that  Mr.  North's  death  was  caused  by  the 
filling  of  his  lungs  with  blood  instead  of  air.  It 
was  a  painless  death,  and  Mr.  North's  will  power 
would  have  enabled  him  to  prolong  his  life  sixty 
seconds — perhaps  even  180  seconds — ample  time 
for  the  writing  of  this  name  on  the  wall,  as  you  can 
see.  Take  the  name  Paul  North  ;  trace  it  slowly, 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  85 

as  if  you  had  to  dip  your  finger  in  the  writing  fluid 
four  times.  There.  Now  time  yourself.  How 
long  did  it  take  you?" 

"Just  twenty  seconds,"  said  Mr.  Thomas. 

"  Exactly.  Now  you  understand  the  possibilities 
in  this  matter  of  the  writing;  and  I  tell  you,  Thomas, 
this  talk  with  you  only  confirms  and  emphasizes  my 
belief  that  here  you  have  a  great  case — one  of  the 
most  extraordinary  in  my  experience.  If  you  can 
put  what  I've  told  you  to  good  use,  I  shall  be  glad; 
but  mind,  I  shall  not  look  to  see  it  in  the  morning 
papers." 

The  surgeon  had  arisen  and  was  accompanying 
the  reporter  to  the  door.  Thomas  stopped  him  by 
a  restraining  gesture. 

"  By  the  way,  doctor,  stand  just  as  you  are.  Now 
will  you  put  your  finger  on  that  part  of  your  body 
corresponding  to  that  where  Paul  North  was  shot  ? " 

The  surgeon  obliged  him.  Thomas,  standing 
behind  him,  made  several  rapid  measurements  and 
calculations  with  his  eye  and  hand. 

"  There  is  something  decidedly  curious  here, 
doctor,"  he  said.  ''  Stand  behind  me,  please.  Sup- 
pose  me  your  intended  victim,  if  it's  not  too  great  a 
strain  on  your  imagination.  Now  see  where  you 
must  hold  your  pistol  to  comply  with  all  conditions 
— within  three  feet,  pointed  upward  at  an  angle  of 
twenty  degrees  !  " 

The  surgeon,  who  hastened  to  attempt  the 
experiment,  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"  Curious  how  much  a  man  may  miss  when  he 


86  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

thinks  he  has  observed  the  whole,  sometimes,"  he 
said.  "  Why,  I  never  thought  of  this  before." 

"  What,  doctor  ?  " 

"  The  man  who  fired  that  ball  must  have  been 
upon  his  knees." 

"  Precisely  !  Precisely  !  "  exclaimed  Thomas. 
"  Just  my  thoughts  exactly.  What  sane  person 
would  fire  a  pistol  at  a  man  in  any  such  direction 
in  an  erect  attitude  ?  It  would  be  almost  equally 
absurd  if  the  assassin  had  been  seated." 

"  You  are  right,"  returned  the  surgeon,  thought- 
fully. "  He  might  have  been  crouching  behind 
some  article  of  furniture — " 

"  Or  been  previously  knocked  down  !  "  Thomas 
interposed,  turning  a  very  meaning  look  upon  the 
surgeon's  face. 

"  So,  indeed !  That  would  indicate,  then,  a 
struggle  to  your  mind  !  " 

"  It  would  indicate  that  the  murderer  fired  in 
self-defense,  or  from  momentary  passion  induced 
by  North's  treatment  of  him." 

"Good!  Good  !"  cried  the  surgeon.  "There's 
a  theory  that  presents  all  the  plausibility  of  life. 
These  cold-blooded,  deliberate  murders  are  going 
out  of  fashion  in  this  age  of  the  world.  And  there- 
upon the  horrified  murderer  flees  and  the  dying 
man  writes  his  name  upon  the  wall  by  which  he 
lies." 

Thomas  shook  hands  warmly  with  the  speaker. 
He  did  not  say  so,  but  the  surgeon  understood 
the  action  to  indicate  that  the  reporter  was  con- 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  87 

gratulating  him  upon  having  arrived  at  the  same 
conclusions  to  which  he  himself  had  come. 

When  Thomas  found  himself  in  the  cool  air  of 
the  June  night  again,  he  hastened  at  a  round  pace 
in  the  direction  of  Newspaper  Row.  He  was  near 
the  door  of  his  own  office  when  a  man  jumped  from 
a  horse  car  and  tapped  him  upon  the  shoulder.  It 
was  Detective  John  Lamm,  direct  from  Swamp- 
scott. 

"What's  your  hurry,  Kingman  ? "  he  inquired, 
with  the  easy  assurance  of  a  familiar  acquaintance. 
"Come  up  into  my  office  a  few  minutes.  I  want 
to  talk  with  you." 

Reporter  Thomas  consulted  his  watch. 

"  The  fact  is,  old  man,"  he  said  with  a  frank 
smile,  "  I'm  rather  driven  to-night.  It's  that  North 
mystery,  you  understand." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  isn't  the  very  matter  I 
wanted  to  talk  with  you  about  ? "  returned  Mr. 
Lamm,  taking  the  reporter's  arm  with  good-humored 
insistence,  and  escorting  him,  half  reluctantly,  to 
his  own  private  den,  as  he  called  it. 

"  Kingman,  I  know  you,  and  you  know  me,"  said 
the  detective,  after  they  were  fairly  settled  in  their 
chairs.  "  It  came  to  me  when  I  saw  you  just  now 
that  we  might  work  this  case  together.  It  wouldn't 
be  the  first  case  we  have  handled  together,  eh  ?  " 

"  You're  right,"  said  Thomas. 

"  Now,  I'm  interested  in  this  North  mystery  very 
particularly,  you  understand,"  pursued  Mr.  Lamm, 
quite  warming  to  his  subject,  now  that  he  was 


88  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

closeted  with  a  tried  friend,  and  at  an  hour  when 
he  was  reasonably  secure  from  interruption.  "Not 
for  the  Government,  of  course.  Private  parties. 
And  my  opinion,  gathered  from  all  I  have  been 
able  to  ascertain  about  the  case,  is  that  it  is  very 
mysterious,  very  complicated,  and  may  baffle  even 
the  most  thorough  investigation." 

Thomas  pursed  up  his  lips,  and  regarded  the  gas 
jet  doubtfully. 

"You  don't  think  so,  eh  ?  " 

•'  When  I  hear  what  Thornton  Stackhouse's 
alibi  is,  I  can  answer  you  better." 

"Alibi,  eh  ?  So  you  have  the  medical  examiner's 
report  ?  Good  !  Just  what  I  was  after.  When 
did  North  die  ?  " 

The  reporter  laughingly  parried  this  query  with 
another. 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  have  the  doctor's  report  on 
the  autopsy  in  my  coat  pocket  ?  " 

Mr.  Lamm  ventured  to  express  a  shrewd  suspic- 
ion that  his  friend  did  possess,  by  some  fortunate 
chance  or  other,  the  essential  facts  of  that  report, 
and  Mr.  Thomas  quite  justified  that  suspicion  by 
letting  him  know,  in  strict  confidence,  the  outcome 
of  his  interview  with  the  surgeon. 

The  detective  uttered  a  long,  low  whistle. 

"  Curious  !     Mighty  curious  !  "  he  commented. 

"  If  you'll  be  so  good  as  to  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity," suggested  Thomas,  "  I'll  be  pleased  to 
ejaculate  with  you." 

"  Um — ha!     You  said  a  moment  ago,  Thomas, 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  89 

that  your  opinion  of  the  case  would  depend  upon 
the  alibi  of  Thornton  Stackhouse.  What  would 
you  say  if  I  told  you  that  the  said  gentleman's 
elsewhere  has  one  weak  spot  in  it,  involving 
the  precise  period  of  time  that  you  have 
mentioned  ?  " 

"  I  should  say  nothing,  but  remain  in  hourly  ex- 
pectation of  Thornton  Stackhouse's  arrest." 

"Very  well.  See  that  you  do  say  nothing,  for 
the  secret  is  yours  and  mine  at  present.  And  so 
you  have  already  convicted  the  poor  fellow  ?  " 

John  Lamm  took  one  of  the  cigars  which  stood 
upright  in  the  upper  pocket  of  his  vest,  and  drew  a 
match  against  the  under  side  of  his  chair,  which 
was  tipped  back  against  the  wall. 

"  I  must  confess,"  Thomas  replied,  "  that  it  looks 
to  me  something  that  way." 

"  Oh,  indeed,  yes.  The  evidence  is  strong — 
even  stronger,  probably,  than  you  know — against 
him.  But  then — " 

In  lieu  of  continuing,  Lamm  lighted  his  cigar. 

'•  Thomas,  what  is  your  definition  of  a  good 
theory  of  a  mystery  ?  "  he  suddenly  inquired,  as  he 
threw  the  match  from  him. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  ever  thought  of  defining 
it." 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you  what  mine  is.  A  good  theory 
is  one  which  thoroughly  explains  all  the  facts  in  the 
case." 

"  Short  and  comprehensive,"  said  Thomas. 

"  I  subscribe  to  it.     That's  my  idea.     Now,   is 


9°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

there  any  fact  in  the  case,  so  far  known,  inconsist- 
ent with  Thornton  Stackhouse  being  the  man  ?  " 

"  None  at  all." 

"  Ah  !  And  yet  I  can  see  plainly  enough  that 
you  don't  subscribe  to  my  opinion.  Is  there  any 
fact  which  the  supposition  of  his  guilt  leaves  unex- 
plained ?  " 

"  There  is  one  fact  which  the  supposition  of  his 
guilt  does  not  explain." 

"  Well,  now  we  are  coming  to  the  point.  What 
is  it  ?  " 

"  It  doesn't  explain  to  my  mind  why  a  certain 
individual  of  my  acquaintance  should  be  so  anxious 
to  convict  him." 

"  Name  the  man." 

"  It  would  be  a  breach  of  professional  etiquette. 
But  as  you  and  I  are  old  friends,  Thomas,  and 
never  betray  each  other's  confidences,  I  don't  mind 
saying  to  you  that,  if  you  can  get  hold  of  any  facts 
tending  to  explain  Mr.  Richard  Fetridge's  strong 
interest  in  this  case,  I  shall  be  exceedingly  obliged 
if  you  will  bring  them  to  me." 

"  Jupiter  !  "  exclaimed  Thomas,  opening  his 
eyes ;  "  there  is  more  in  this  case,  then,  than  I 
thought  !  " 

And  when  he  left  the  room  after  a  half-hour's 
further  conversation,  it  was  with  the  conviction 
that,  unless  some  unexpected  thing  happened  to 
determine  otherwise,  the  North  mystery  would  turn 
out  to  be  a  complication  worthy  of  his  best  thought 
and  his  most  skillful  treatment. 


LIFE  AFTER  DEATH.  91 

As  for  Detective  John  Lamm,  he  remained  for 
fully  an  hour  after  Thomas  had  left  him,  motion- 
less and  silent  in  a  cloud  of  smoke.  He  was  quite 
aware  that  his  bold  stroke  of  enterprise  of  the 
morning  had  put  him  a  long  distance  ahead  of  any 
other  possible  investigator  in  the  case.  The  ques- 
tion was  how  to  turn  his  discoveries  to  the  best 
advantage. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE   INSPECTOR   DISCOVERS   NEW    EVIDENCE. 

THE  Friday  when  the  body  of  Paul  North  was 
discovered,  and  the  day  following,  were  two 
exceedingly  busy  days  for  the  police  department, 
under  the  active  superintendence  and  guidance  of 
Inspector  Applebee. 

Not  even  Aunt  Comfort,  who  had  made  it  her 
panting  duty  as  housekeeper,  to  range  the  Marl- 
boro Street  house  at  frequent  intervals,  from  base- 
ment to  attic,  knew  half  so  much  about  the  place 
and  what  it  contained  as  Inspector  Applebee. 

Again  and  again  he  had  examined  every  nook 
and  corner,  turning  his  bullseye  upon  the  recesses 
of  every  trunk  and  box,  sounding  every  cask  and 
receptacle,  making  sure  that  nowhere  within  the 
four  walls  of  Paul  North's  home  was  hidden  the 
weapon  which  had  caused  Paul  North's  death. 

It  was  with  rather  a  puzzled  countenance  and  a 
mind  unsettled  and  ill  at  ease  that  about  noon  on 
Saturday  he  sought  a  conference  with  his  chief  at 
headquarters  ;  for  even  Inspector  Applebee  had 
his  superior  officer. 

"  Well,  Applebee  !  "  said  the  chief  inspector,  as 
the  door  was  closed,  and  the  two  men  found  them- 
92 


THE  INSPECTOR  'S  NE IV  E  VIDENCE.        93 

selves  alone  in  the  little  office  ;  "  are  you  prepared 
to  make  any  arrests  ?  What's  on  your  mind  ?  Have 
you  found  out  anything  ?  " 

"  Found  out  anything  ?  I've  found  out  too 
much.  There's  just  the  trouble.  When  I  woke  up 
this  morning  my  mind  was  settled.  Four  hour's 
work  and  it's  all  at  sea  again.  Fully  prepared  to 
make  an  arrest  to-day,  I've  now  reached  a  point 
where  I  don't  know  whom  to  suspect,  or  what  to 
think." 

"  Well,  take  this  morning  for  a  starting  point. 
When  we  separated  last  night,  you  were  sure  the 
partner  was  our  man." 

"  I  was.  In  the  first  place,  North  seemed  to 
have  written  his  name  on  the  wall  in  his  own  blood. 
Now,  it  strikes  me  that  an  accusation  made  at  the 
moment  of  death  is  a  very  solemn  one.  A  man 
isn't  likely  at  such  a  time  to  indulge  in  feelings  of 
petty  spite  or  practical  joking,  is  he,  now?  " 

"  I  should  say  not,  decidedly.  But  why  were  you 
so  sure  that  he  wrote  it  ?  " 

"  Because  the  doctors  say  he  could  have  done  it, 
and  that  there  are  few  circumstances  of  death  like 
that  under  which  such  a  thing  could  happen.  And 
it  strikes  me  that  to  assume  somebody  else  did  it  in 
face  of  such  a  report,  is  taking  too  much  advantage 
of  what  must  be  in  that  case  a  remarkable  coinci- 
dence. 

"  Coincidences  happen,"  said  the  chief  shortly. 

"  So  they  do.  But  in  nine  hundred  and  ninety- 
nine  chances  out  of  a  thousand,  if  a  murderer 


94  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

endeavored  to  throw  us  off  by  such  a  ruse,  the 
medical  examiner  would  discover  the  trick  at  a 
glance,  and  denounce  the  writing  as  a  fraud." 

"  Even  so.  How  do  you  know  what  North  had 
in  his  mind  to  write  ?  He  might  have  started  in  to 
declare  '  Stackhouse  is  my  executor,'  or  '  Stack- 
house  inherits  my  property,' or  'Stackhouse  is — ' 
anything  else  you  may  please  to  imagine." 

"  True,"  said  Applebee  doubtfully. 

"  And  then,  again  we  are  not  unquestionably 
sure  that  the  writing  is  intended  for  Stackhouse, 
are  we  ? " 

"  After  two  hours  of  inspection  and  experiment, 
I  am  fully  persuaded  that  it  cannot  be  anything 
else." 

"  And  how  does  Stackhouse  himself  impress 
you  ? " 

"  Confound  the  man  !  He  puzzles  me.  I  had 
a  long  talk  with  him  this  morning.  He  carries  a 
32-calibre  pistol.  There  are  no  signs  of  its  having 
been  recently  discharged." 

"  I  presume  he  knows  how  to  clean  it,"  said  the 
chief  inspector  dryly. 

"  No  doubt  ;  and  how  to  fire  it,  too.  But  what 
good  does  that  do  us  ?  I  put  the  case  to  him 
plainly.  I  said,  '  Stackhouse,  this  is  no  time  for 
conventionalities.  People  are  beginning  to  talk. 
Better  clear  it  up  at  once  by  giving  me  an  alibi' 
Shoot  me,  if  he  didn't  say  that  between  eight  and 
nine,  when  Jarrett  says  North  was  shot,  he  was  walk- 
ing in  the  Public  Garden  alone,  smoking  a  cigar." 


THE  INSPECTOR 'S  NEW  E VIDENCE.        95 

"  Looks  bad." 

"  So  it  does.  But  the  queerest  thing  is  that  he  is 
not  living  at  home.  Where  did  Thornton  Stack- 
house  spend  last  night  ?  At  his  house  at  the 
beach,  where  the  women  folk  would  certainly  be 
expected  to  need  him  at  such  a  time  as  this,  of  all 
times  ?  No,  sir.  At  the  Adams  House." 

"  That  means  trouble  in  the  family." 

"  And  very  serious  trouble.  Men  quarrel  with 
their  wives  often  enough  ;  but  not  often  under 
such  circumstances  as  these." 

"  How  did  you  find  the  family  ?  " 

"  Frightened  to  death.  Stupid.  Idiotic.  Stack- 
house's  wife  alone  preserves  her  senses,  and  she  is 
a  tartar.  She  seemed  to  take  my  visit  as  a  personal 
affront,  and  read  me  a  lecture  on  propriety.  I  con- 
fess I  lost  my  temper.  '  Do  you  intend  to  hinder 
justice  all  you  can,  or  to  help  it  ? '  said  I.  '  It's 
not  in  my  province  to  do  either,'  she  said,  with  a 
defiant  look  in  her  eye.  '  I  shall  let  justice  take 
its  course.'  I  can  forgive  a  young  woman  with 
plenty  of  money  for  doing  a  great  deal,  but  there's 
such  a  thing  as  overdoing  the  high  and  mighty. 
I  couldn't  imagine  what  made  her  seem  so  unmoved 
by  her  father's  death  till  I  learned  that  she's  not 
his  daughter  after  all." 

"  No  ?  " 

"  An  adopted  child." 

"  Adopted  at  what  age  ?  " 

"Took  her  out  of  the  Temporary  Home  in 
Charles  Street  when  she  was  a  year  old." 


96  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Watch  that  woman." 

"  You  may  be  sure  I  shall." 

"  How  about  the  other  daughter  ?  " 

"  She's  his  own  daughter,  but  I  didn't  see  her. 
I  was  given  to  understand  she  was  completely 
prostrated  by  her  father's  death.  She  is  between 
seventeen  and  eighteen  years  old,  and  I  doubt  if 
she  could  help  us  at  all." 

"  But  all  this  doesn't  explain  what  has  unsettled 
your  ideas  about  Stackhouse.  So  far  you  have 
only  confirmed  your  own  suspicions." 

"  Ah,  but  there  have  been  several  new  facts.  At 
an  early  hour  this  morning,  I  deputed  two  men  to 
make  a  thorough  canvass  of  the  neighborhood  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  whether  anybody  had 
been  seen  going  in  or  coming  out  of  the  North 
house  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  Unfortunately 
the  people  who  live  directly  opposite,  who  would 
be  more  likely  to  have  observed  than  anybody  else, 
left  for  Newport  yesterday  morning.  Still,  we  have 
found  a  servant  girl,  Hannah  Doyle,  who  lives 
several  houses  further  down.  This  woman  posi- 
tively declares  that  when  she  was  returning  home 
after  dark  about  half-past  nine  on  Thursday  night, 
she  saw  a  woman — a  young  woman,  she  believes — 
come  down  the  steps  of  the  North  house  and  walk 
away." 

"  The  deuce  she  did  !  Can  she  not  be  mistaken 
in  the  house  ?  " 

"She  says  not.  What  made  her  notice  the  woman 
and  remember  the  circumstance  was  the  peculiar 


THE  INSPECTOR 'S  NK  W  £  VIDENCE.        97 

fact  that  anybody  should  be  coming  out  of  a  house 
boarded  up  for  the  summer.  And  no  other  house 
for  several  doors  except  the  North  house  is  boarded 
up." 

"  This  is  important,  Applebee." 

"  I  think  so." 

"  Half-past  nine  must  have  been  later  than  the 
murder.  Consequently  the  woman  must  have  been 
the  criminal  or  an  accomplice." 

"  She  could  not  have  failed  to  know  that  North 
had  been  killed  even  if  she  had  no  part  in  the  deed. 
The  fact  that  she  gave  no  alarm — has  not  spoken  a 
word  since — declares  her  complicity." 

"  It  seems  proof  positive." 

"  Another  fact,  if  you  please.  I  have  discovered 
that  North  had  somewhere  in  his  possession  a 
32-calibre  pistol.  That  pistol  was  presumably  in 
the  Marlboro  Street  house  on  the  night  of  the 
murder.  I  have  searched  the  premises  from  top 
to  bottom  without  finding  a  trace  of  it." 

"  That  has  an  odd  look,  too." 

"  But,"  continued  Applebee,  with  a  meaning 
emphasis,  "  I  did  find  the  box  of  cartridges — nearly 
filled — in  a  drawer  of  the  writing  desk  in  the  library 
where  the  man  was  shot.  The  drawer  was  closed, 
but  the  box  was  open." 

"  Important,"  said  the  chief  inspector,  quickly. 
"  Important.  Now,  how  thorough  has  been  your 
search  of  the  premises  ?  " 

"  I  did  not  take  any  chances.  I  took  two  men 
with  me.  We  even  visited  the  coal  bins  and  exam- 


98  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

ined  the  ash  barrels  in  detail.  Stackhouse  has  been 
eager  to  afford  us  any  help.  He  has  given  us  every 
key  we  asked  for.  The  search  has  been  thorough. 
The  pistol  is  not  there." 

"  So  then  it  only  remains  to  discover  who  that 
woman  was." 

"  So  it  seems." 

"  Have  you  no  clue  ?  " 

"  Just  one." 

"  Of  what  nature  ?  " 

"  A  perfume.  To  be  sure,  there  is  a  handker- 
chief, but  it  is  unmarked,  and  I  have  inquired  at 
the  stores  where  they  sell  such  things,  to  no  pur- 
pose. I  told  you  where  and  when  I  found  that  bit 
of  lace.  It  was  upon  the  stairs,  between  the  second 
and  third  floors,  not  a  great  many  steps  from  the 
door  of  the  library,  and  it  had  not  been  lying  there 
any  fifteen  days,  which  is  the  length  of  time  the 
family  have  been  away." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  I  took  it  to  a  chemist.  He  assured 
me  that  to  be  as  fresh  as  that  the  perfume  must 
have  been  applied  within  two  days  at  the  longest. 
It  is  one  of  those  volatile  preparations  that  soon 
lose  their  strength." 

"  I  don't  see  but  your  chain  is  complete,  then,  so 
far  as  it  goes.  No  man  ever  carried  that  handker- 
chief. It  must  have  been  dropped  by  a  woman. 
The  woman  was  seen  coming  away  after  the  hour 
at  which  the  crime  was  committed.  You  haven't 
forgotten  that  perfume,  I  trust." 


THE  INSPECTOR  'S  NE  W  E  VIDENCE.        99 

"  Assuredly  not.  If  I  ever  get  near  enough  to 
the  woman  who  uses  it — but  that's  the  trouble. 
I'm  afraid  she's  not  apt  to  pay  me  a  visit." 

"  You  must  visit  her,  then.  Meanwhile,  what 
about  the  threatening  letter  which  was  written  to 
North  a  week  or  two  previous  to  the  crime  ?  " 

"  Bless  me !  I  had  nearly  forgotten  it.  But 
what  are  we  to  do  ?  The  decoy  letter  is  still  un- 
claimed at  the  post  office." 

"  Put  an  expert  on  to  the  handwriting.  Get 
samples  of  the  chirography  of  everybody  who  is 
likely  to  have  suffered  by  the  operation  of  the  firm." 

The  idea  was  so  feasible  that  Inspector  Applebee 
determined  to  put  it  into  effect  at  once.  He  left 
headquarters  and  hurried  to  the  office  of  North 
&  Stackhouse,  where  he  hoped  to  find  the  junior 
partner. 

Disregarding  the  crape  on  the  door,  which  kept 
away  less  importunate  visitors,  Inspector  Applebee 
rattled  at  the  handle,  and  was  quietly  admitted  by 
old  Jobson,  who  seemed  to  have  the  outer  office  all 
to  himself. 

"  Mr.  Stackhouse?"  said  the  inspector. 

The  old  clerk  covered  his  eyes  with  his  left  hand 
and  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  inner  office.  Apple- 
bee  understood  the  unspoken  premonition  of  the 
old  man. 

"Poor  old  fool!"  he  thought;  "he  thinks  the 
hour  of  the  firm's  disgrace  has  come,  and  that  I 
am  here  to  arrest  his  employer.  Well,  may  be  I 
shall,  some  day.  But  not  yet — not  yet." 


100  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

He  pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in  without 
ceremony.  Thornton  Stackhouse  started  up  from 
the  desk  at  which  he  had  been  writing,  his  face 
flushed,  his  manner  agitated. 

The  inspector  expected  some  word  of  greeting — 
a  grunt  or  a  nod,  if  nothing  more.  But  Stackhouse 
drew  a  full  breath,  set  his  teeth,  and  seemed  to  be 
waiting. 

"  Bless  me  !  "  thought  the  inspector  ;  "  he  ex- 
pects it,  too  ! " 

"  Well,  Stackhouse,"  he  said,  with  a  reassuring 
smile  ;  "  is  there  anything  new  in  the  case?" 

Stackhouse  sighed  and  shook  his  head  wearily. 
His  dry  lips  murmured  : 

"  Nothing." 

He  evidently  understood  that  there  was  still  a 
respite,  but  it  did  not  seem  to  comfort  him.  His 
eye  suddenly  fell  upon  the  paper  on  which  he  had 
been  recently  writing.  He  furtively  seized  it  in  his 
hand  and  crumpled  it. 

The  inspector,  who  observed  this,  immediately 
began  to  appear  indifferent  to  Stackhouse's  actions, 
and  pretending  to  turn  toward  Jobson,  stated  his 
purpose  in  calling. 

Stackhouse  falling  into  the  trap,  seized  the  op- 
portunity to  tear  the  writing  paper  into  strips,  and 
cast  it  into  the  waste  basket. 

"  May  I  be  shot !  "  was  the  inspector's  inward 
ejaculation,  "  if  that  basket  goes  out  of  my 
sight  till  I  have  gathered  up  those  bits  of  torn 
paper." 


THE  INSPECTOR 'S  NE  W  E  VIDENCE.      ioi 

Meanwhile  he  continued  to  talk  about  the  threat- 
ening letter  to  North,  which  he  held  in  his  hand. 

"  It's  altogether  probable,  Mr.  Stackhouse,"  said 
the  inspector,  "that  we  have  a  very  important  piece 
of  evidence  here.  It  will  require  the  most  careful 
examination.  Plainly,  this  is  largely  a  matter  of 
handwriting  that  we  have  to  deal  with.  You  have 
your  stock  books  and  so  on  available  ?  I  supposed 
as  much.  Be  good  enough  to  have  the  books,  with 
all  the  correspondence  of  the  firm  that  you  can 
secure,  brought  here.  I  will  have  an  expert  in 
handwriting  secured  at  once.  Of  course  until  after 
the  funeral,  your  office  will  be  closed  ?  Very  good  ; 
we  shall  be  able  to  work  uninterruptedly  for  a  day 
or  two." 

Gradually  all  traces  of  Stackhouse's  agitation 
disappeared.  He  accompanied  the  inspector  into 
the  outer  office.  The  books  were  got  out,  Jobson 
was  sent  after  the  writing  expert,  and  Stackhouse 
seemed  to  be  eager  and  absorbed  in  the  new  quest. 
Applebee's  opportunity  came  at  last.  Going  into 
the  inner  office  upon  the  first  reasonable  pretext, 
he  hastily  transferred  the  contents  of  the  waste 
basket  to  his  hat.  Fortunately  he  had  a  large  head, 
and  his  hat  was  capacious. 

After  the  arrival  of  the  writing  expert  the  inspec- 
tor did  not  linger  long  at  the  office.  He  suddenly 
discovered  an  errand.  In  five  minutes  he  was 
locked  in  a  private  office  alone,  excitedly  compar- 
ing, arranging,  searching,  and  pasting.  As  the 
writing  was  only  on  one  side  of  the  sheet,  patience 


102  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

and  a  little  mucilage  soon  effected  a  restoration 
of  the  whole.  And  this  was  the  inspector's  re- 
ward : 

"  Oh,  Marion  !  Oh,  my  beautiful  and  cruel 
wife  !  I  will  not  ask  you  to  have  pity  on  me,  for 
I  know  you  hate  and  despise  me.  I  will  not  ask 
you  to  think  of  my  suffering  and  despair,  for  I 
know  you  have  made  up  your  mind  that  I  deserve 
the  worst  misfortune  that  a  guilty  conscience  can 
inflict.  But,  oh,  for  your  own  sake,  I  beg  of  you 
to  tell  me  what  that  wicked  and  unscrupulous  wo- 
man, whose  name  was  upon  your  lips  when  we 
parted,  has  told  you  !  If  you  knew  what  her  pur- 
pose is,  how  she  exists  by  blackmail  and  crime,  you 
would  be  careful  how  you  put  faith  in  her.  Per- 
haps she  presented  what  seemed  to  be  proofs. 
Remember  proofs  can  be  manufactured." 

At  this  point  the  letter  ended. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  grumbled  the  inspector,  hugely  dis- 
appointed ;  "  it's  nothing  but  a  wheedling  love 
letter  to  his  wife  !  " 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

APPLEBEE   IS    TAKEN    BY    SURPRISE. 

THE  course  of  professional  duty  which  brought 
Detective  Lamm  to  Swampscott  shore  on  Fri- 
day also  brought  to  the  North  villa,  on  the  day 
following,  Mr.  Kingman  F.  Thomas. 

A  young  and  timid  gentleman,  of  many  aspira- 
tions but  too  little  confidence,  had  been  deputed  to 
call  at  the  house  for  such  news  as  might  be  attain- 
able. But  Moffett,  in  all  his  dignity — before  he 
had  looked  at  Mr.  Lamm's  warning  figure — Mof- 
fett had  repelled  the  novice  in  newspaper  work  ; 
and  when  Mr.  Thomas  reported  himself  for  duty 
on  Saturday  morning,  among  the  work  deputed  to 
him  for  the  day  was  a  visit  to  the  North  household 
at  Swampscott. 

Other  newspaper  duties  so  far  encroached  upon 
Mr.  Thomas's  time  that  it  was  not  until  evening 
that  he  took  the  train  for  Swampscott,  and  it  was 
growing  dark  when  he  reached  the  house,  which 
appeared  almost  deserted. 

But  Mr.  Thomas's  vigorous  ring  at  the  bell  was 
answered  by  a  pretty  maid  in  mourning,  to  whom 
Mr.  Thomas  confided  the  fact  that  he  was  a  friend 
of  the  late  master  of  the  house,  and  would  be  glad 
of  the  opportunity  to  see  Miss  Harwood. 
103 


104  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Aunt  Comfort  in  due  time  surged  through  the 
doorway  of  the  reception-room,  none  too  large  to 
admit  the  comfortable  passage  of  her  portly  form. 

"  This  is  Miss  Harwood  ?  "  said  Mr.  Thomas. 

"Yes,  sir." 

*'  Permit  me  to  present  myself.  My  name  is 
Thomas.  I  have  long  known  Mr.  North  in  busi- 
ness circles  ;  indeed,  I  may  say  that  we  met  very 
frequently  on  social  occasions  also.  Hearing  of  this 
sad  event,  I  have  called  to  offer  my  condolences, 
and  to  beg  that,  if  my  services  in  any  capacity  will 
be  of  value,  you  will  do  me  the  favor  of  putting 
them  to  the  best  use,  though  I  know  that,  with  Miss 
Harwood  as  head  of  the  bereaved  household, 
nothing  has  been  left  undone."  This  with  a 
deferential  bow. 

Aunt  Comfort  sighed  heavily,  and  then  sat  down 
resignedly. 

"'  It's  a  great  trial,  Mr. — Mr.  Thomas,  thank  you, 
Mr.  Thomas.  So  many  things,  too,  have  come 
upon  me.  The  poor  young  ladies  are  entirely  over- 
come, and  I  have  had  to  supervise  all  that  has 
been  done.  But  it's  my  place  to  do  it — my  place. 
Oh,  Mr*  Thomas,  can  you  tell  me  one  thing — 
where  is  my  poor  brother-in-law's  body  ?  " 

Mr.  Thomas,  prepared  for  almost  any  possible 
query,  found  it  entirely  out  of  his  power  to  under- 
stand the  purport  of  such  a  question  addressed  to 
him. 

"  You  don't  know — nobody  seems  to  have  looked 
after  the  matter.  What  can  everybody  be  thinking 


APPLE  BEE  IS  TAKEN  BY  SURPRISE.     105 

about,  with  the  Stewart  body-stealing  case  so  recent 
in  mind,  not  to  make  sure  that  poor  Mr.  North's 
corpse  is  not  stolen  and  held  for  ransom  ?  " 

Aunt  Comfort  swayed  forward  and  back,  and 
looked  appealingly  at  the  old-fashioned  hall  clock 
in  the  corner. 

"  I  will  make  careful  inquiries,  madam,  if  you 
wish  it,"  said  the  reporter,  "  when  I  return  to  the 
city." 

"  Thank  you.     Oh,  thank  you  !     A-h  !  " 

"  But  I  am  confident  that  everything  will  be  prop- 
erly managed.  There  is  Mr.  Stackhouse." 

"  Oh,  sir,  you  don't  know.  I  couldn't  say  a 
word  about  the  matter,  not  even  to  Mr.  North's 
friend.  But  I  will  remark  that  circumstances  have 
taken  such  a  strange  turn  that  Mr.  Stackhouse  will 
not  be  much  concerned  in  the  funeral  arrangements. 
The  only  gentleman  who  is  doing  anything  is  Mr. 
Fetridge — a  friend  of  the  family  ;  and  I  am  so  over- 
wrought and  troubled  by  these  terrible  events,  Mr. 
— Mr.  (Thomas,  thank  you),  that  I  hardly  know 
whether  to  hope  he  can  be  of  much  service  to  us 
or  not." 

Mr.  Thomas  brought  his  most  approved  glance 
of  sympathy  to  bear  upon  the  good  old  lady. 

"You  must  be  calm  and  firm,  madam,"  he  sug- 
gested. "  Remember  that  everything  depends  on 
you — the  young  ladies  look  to  you,  naturally,  in  a 
time  like  this." 

"  Ah-h-h  !  "  ejaculated  Aunt  Comfort.  "  They 
are  acting  very  strangely.  Of  course,  I  couldn't 


106  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

think  of  saying  anything  against  them,  for  I 
love  the  poor  girls,  both  of  them  ;  but  I  must 
say,  sir,  that  it  has  been  a  trial  to  me  to  see  how 
recklessly  they  have  gone  on  here,  without  even 
listening  to  good  advice." 

"  The  effect  of  the  sudden  shock,"  hinted  Mr. 
Thomas,  respectfully.  "  They  need  a  little  disin- 
terested counsel,  my  dear  madam.  Now  if  I  could 
only  see  them  as  their  father's  friend  and  have  a 
little  talk  with  the  young  ladies,  I  am  sure  they 
would  see  matters  in  their  true  light  and  realize 
what  a  blessing  it  is  to  have  such  a  prop  and  stay 
as  you  in  a  time  like  this." 

Aunt  Comfort  furtively  wiped  her  eyes,  as  she 
again  swayed  back  and  forth  shaking  her  head. 

"  You  are  very  kind  and  thoughtful,  Mr. — Mr. — 
(Thomas,  thank  you) — and,  you  being  a  friend  of 
their  poor  dead  father,  perhaps  the  girls  will  heed 
what  you  say.  I  would  not  think  of  allowing  a 
stranger  to  see  them.  There  were  two  callers  here 
yesterday.  One  was  a  police  detective.  Perhaps 
he  had  a  right  to  come.  But  the  other  was  only  an 
inquisitive  inspector.  Whether  gas  or  water  in- 
spector I  really  do  not  know,  Mr.  Thomas.  He 
forgot  his  place  and  the  proprieties,  sir,  so  far  as 
to  ask  questions  about  poor  Mr.  North — oh,  dear, 
dear,  to  think  that  we  none  of  us  know  where  the 
body  is  at  this  moment — but  it  is  a  satisfaction  to 
me,  sir,  so  far  as  a  poor  woman  can  have  a  feeling 
of  satisfaction  under  such  a  terrible  dispensation  as 
this — it  is  a  satisfaction  to  know  that  the  gas  man, 


APPLEBEE  IS  TAKEN  BY  SURPRISE.     107 

or  water  man,  or  whatever  he  was,  with  his  badge 
on  his  breast,  went  away  none  the  wiser." 

"He  was  an  impertinent  fellow,"  Mr.  Thomas 
commented.  "  I  wish  I  knew  his  name — I  might 
have  him  removed  for  such  prying  intrusion.  You 
managed  him  beautifully,  madam,  I  know.  But 
there  are  some  women — " 

The  reporter  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  finish 
the  sentence.  Aunt  Comfort's  face  showed  that 
she  appreciated  the  implied  compliment. 

"  He  gave  me  his  name,  sir,  but  I  have  almost 
forgotten  it.  Peachwasp — no,  that  wasn't  it. 
Pearfly — Pearfly — some  such  name  as  that.  It  was 
not  a  common  name." 

Mentally,  Mr.  Thomas  quite  agreed  with  the 
lady  on  this  point,  though  it  was  some  time  before, 
by  a  process  of  evolution,  he  was  able  to  compre- 
hend the  fact  that  this  unsatisfied  visitor  was  no  less 
important  a  personage  than  Inspector  Applebee, 
of  Boston. 

"  And  the  young  ladies  ? "  Mr.  Thomas  ventured 
to  hint  after  a  respectable  pause.  "  This  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge  is  known  to  them  and  to  you,  of  course — he 
is  a  friend  of  the  family  ? " 

"  Oh,  dear  me,  yes,  sir,"  was  Aunt  Comfort's 
reply.  "  He  has  been  a  frequent  visitor  here  for — 
let  me  see,  let  me  see,  it  must  be  three  years  at  the 
very  least  since  we  first  made  his  acquaintance. 
There  was  a  time  when  he  didn't  come  so  much, 
and  we  thought  perhaps  there  had  been  some  dis- 
agreement between  him  and  poor  Mr.  North.  But 


I08  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

he  began  to  come  again  to  the  house,  just  as  before. 
Yes,  Mr.  Fetridge  has  been  very  friendly  with  both 
our  young  ladies." 

"  I  never  heard  Mr.  North  speak  of  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge," said  Thomas.  "  But  if  you  know  him  to 
be  trustworthy  and  honorable  that  is  certainly  suffi- 
cient assurance." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Thomas.  Here  I  have  been 
keeping  you  from  the  ladies.  I  am  sure  they  will 
be  very  ready  to  see  a  friend  of  their  father. 
And  I  do  hope  they  will  hear  what  you  have 
to  say." 

"  I  can  advise  them  to  no  better  course,  my  dear 
madam,  than  to  follow  your  own  good  counsel," 
said  the  reporter  as  Aunt  Comfort  took  her  pant- 
ing course  toward  the  door. 

Sitting  in  his  chair  he  could  easily  follow  Aunt 
Comfort's  progress  by  her  ejaculations,  partly 
natural,  partly  the  result  of  her  excitement  of  mind. 
As  he  waited  her  return,  he  thought,  with  pardon- 
able self-complacency,  on  the  facts  which  the  good 
woman  had  disclosed,  and  wondered  if  it  would  be 
his  good  fortune  to  find  the  young  North  ladies 
half  so  ready  to  speak.  He  was  aroused  from  his 
reflections  by  the  reappearance  of  Aunt  Comfort  at 
the  door. 

But  Mr.  Thomas  had  no  thought  for  the  excel- 
lent aunt  after  his  eyes  fell  on  her  companions. 

Both  young  ladies  were  in  mourning,  and  as  they 
advanced,  side  by  side,  behind  Aunt  Comfort,  it 
would  have  been  difficult,  thought  Mr.  Thomas,  to 


APPLEBEE  IS  TAKEN  BY  SURPRISE.      109 

find  two  beautiful  women  more  sharply  and  strongly 
in  contrast. 

The  elder  of  the  two  responded  to  Mr.  Thomas's 
bow,  looked  at  him  a  moment  with  searching  blue 
eyes  that  seemed  to  read  the  whole  truth  as  to 
the  motive  which  had  brought  him  there,  and  then 
took  her  seat.  In  her  haughty,  handsome  face  the 
reporter  saw  the  character  of  a  woman  of  strong 
will  and  passions,  tempered  by  pride  and  sensi- 
tiveness, rather  than  by  power  of  reason  and 
calm  judgment.  Her  face  would  certainly  never 
have  furnished  a  sculptor  with  a  model  for 
Justice. 

How  different  in  all  characteristics  of  woman- 
hood was  the  shrinking,  tearful  girl  at  her  side — 
scarcely  seventeen,  Thomas  thought,  as  he  looked 
at  her  pale,  rounded  face,  and  her  slender,  graceful 
figure.  She  lifted  her  eyes  once  to  meet  and 
acknowledge  his  glance,  and  her  look  of  mingled 
appeal,  fear,  sorrow,  and  helplessness  went  straight 
to  his  heart. 

"  This  is  Mrs. — I  would  say  Mr.  North's  elder 
daughter,"  Aunt  Comfort  introduced  Marion. 
"  And  this  is  Miss  Stella,  his  younger  child.  My 
dear  girls,  this  is  a  friend  of  your  poor  father, 
Mr.  Thomas.  He  takes  a  deep  interest  in  your 
welfare,  and  will  only  be  too  grateful,  he  says,  if  he 
can  be  of  some  service." 

Mr.  Thomas  inwardly  congratulated  himself  that 
his  was  a  real  and  no  simulated  interest  in  the  case, 
for  he  felt  perfectly  sure  that  the  orbs  of  this 


HO  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

blonde-haired,  stately  reserved  woman  would  detect 
in  an  instant  any  pretence. 

It  was  to  Marion  that  he  turned,  but  his  thoughts, 
not  less  than  his  sympathies,  were  with  her  delicate, 
grief-stricken  companion. 

"I  do  not  know  that  Mr.  North  had  a  single 
enemy  in  his  business  affairs,"  he  began,  "  yet  it 
seems  plain  that  somehow  or  other  he  had  gained 
the  hostility  of  some  person,  and  that  person  must 
have  been  concerned  in  this  terrible  crime." 

"Just  what  the  police  detective  said,"  Aunt 
Comfort  interposed.  "  But  if  Mr.  North  had  an 
enemy,  it  was  certainly  no  one  in  this  house." 

She  looked  around  for  some  words  of  confirma- 
tion, but  Stella  was  still  quietly  crying,  and  Marion 
said  nothing. 

"  Cannot  you  think  of  any  person,"  resumed  Mr. 
Thomas,  "  who  might  have  had  a  grudge  against 
your  father?  Any  discharged  employe?"  He 
looked  at  Marion. 

"I  have  no  knowledge  or  suspicion  of  any  such 
person,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  Possibly  Miss  Har- 
wood  may  recall — " 

"  Mercy,  child  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt  Comfort,  re- 
lapsing into  old-time  idioms  in  her  excitement. 
"  How  you  talk  !  There  never  was  a  servant  dis- 
charged in  this  house  but  one  parlor-maid,  who  was 
caught  stealing  Miss  Stella's  ribbons.  May  be, 
though,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  thought.  "  She 
was  a  quick-tempered  creature.  Did  she  ever  use 
threatening  language,  Stella  ?  " 


APPLEBEE  IS  TAtfEN  BY  SURPRISE,     m 

"  Oh,  no,  Aunt  Comfort,"  said  the  younger  girl 
in  broken  tones.  "  Please  do  not  ask  me  any  ques- 
tions. I  cannot  answer  them." 

"  Let  me  speak  for  my  sister  as  well  as  myself, 
Mr.  Thomas,"  declared  Marion,  rising.  "  We 
neither  of  us  have  any  idea  whatever  to  express  as 
to  the  possible  or  probable  guilt  of  any  one.  We 
thank  you  for  your  proffer  of  assistance,  but  will 
not  trouble  you  further  at  this  time.  Come,  Aunt 
Comfort.  Good  evening,  sir." 

The  two  young  ladies  had  left  the  room,  with 
Aunt  Comfort  in  unwilling  tow  like  some  un- 
wieldy, harmless  barge,  before  Mr.  Thomas  realized 
that  the  conference  was  at  an  end.  One  pleasant 
association  only  he  carried  away  with  him,  the  charm 
of  the  presence  of  the  younger  girl,  whose  gentle 
inclination  of  the  head  as  she  looked  at  him  just 
before  leaving  the  room  seemed  to  accentuate  his 
feeling  that  here  was  a  helpless,  beautiful  girl,  who 
appealed  to  his  sympathetic  interest,  and  whom,  if 
occasion  should  come,  he  would  most  gladly  serve. 

Mr.  Thomas,  as  he  wrote  of  the  day's  develop- 
ments in  the  North  case,  graphically  presented 
certain  facts,  but  kept  others,  quite  as  important, 
untold.  Among  these  undisclosed  matters  the 
name  and  standing  of  Richard  Fetridge  in  the  North 
household  were  included. 

There  is  no  "  rest  day  "  in  the  reporter's  week. 
Sunday  came  and  brought  to  Mr.  Thomas  new 
duties.  In  all  the  daily  papers  of  Saturday  this 
announcement  had  appeared  : 


H2  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  The  funeral  of  the  late  Paul  North  will  take  place  from  his 
late  residence,  Swampscott,  at  three  o'clock  P.M.  on  Sunday. 
June  19.  Relatives  and  friends  invited  without  further  notice. 
Burial  private." 

In  the  throng  that  pressed  into  the  house  of 
mourning,  it  would  have  taken  attentive  observation 
to  single  out  Mr.  Thomas.  But  he  was  there  among 
the  first ;  a  nod  of  recognition,  given  and  returned, 
secured  for  him  a  place,  after  his  own  heart,  where 
he  could  see  all  and  not  be  seen.  From  this  point 
of  vantage,  Thomas  looked  over  the  assemblage 
quite  at  his  leisure,  and  noted  many  a  face  familiar 
in  State  Street  and  on  'Change. 

Rather  a  young  man  in  black,  whom  he  remem- 
bered to  have  seen  often,  was  escorted  to  a  place  of 
some  prominence.  He  exchanged  some  whispered 
words  with  those  in  authority,  and  Mr.  Thomas  set 
him  down,  unhesitatingly,  as  Richard  Fetridge. 
And  Richard  Fetridge  it  was,  and  none  other. 

Thornton  Stackhouse,  looking  worn  and  almost 
haggard,  appeared  on  the  threshhold  of  the  great 
parlors.  He  had  been  looked  for  obviously,  for  he 
was  at  once  approached  by  the  master  of  cere- 
monies, with  his  mourning  face,  and  escorted  to  the 
seat  reserved  for  him  not  far  from  the  family  group. 

By  some  potent  influence,  Mr.  Thomas's  eyes,  as 
well  as  his  thoughts,  were  turned  toward  these 
silent,  motionless  women.  Once  more,  it  was  not 
Marion  but  Stella  who  seemed  to  appeal  to  his  heart. 
Once  only  he  caught  sight  of  her  face,  and  its 
pathetic,  frightened  look  again  touched  him  nearly. 


APPLEBEE  IS  TAKEN  BY  SURPRISE.     113 

"  What  would  I  not  give,"  he  thought,  almost 
wondering  at  the  sudden  feeling,  "  for  the  oppor- 
tunity to  help  that  poor  girl !  How  I  wish  it  were 
in  my  power  to  give  her  courage  and  hope." 

Miss  Harwood  sat  with  Marion  and  Stella  on 
either  side,  closely  veiled.  No  other  relatives  were 
present,  for  Paul  North's  only  brother — a  Chicago 
merchant — was  abroad  with  his  family. 

As  the  sweet,  mournful  strains  of  the  funeral 
anthem  were  heard,  the  searching  eye  of  Mr. 
Thomas  noted  the  presence,  in  a  seat  not  far  from 
the  central  group,  of  the  worthy  Inspector  Applebee. 

Mr.  Thomas's  mental  surmise  was  quite  correct. 
Inspector  Applebee  was  there  on  business.  But 
the  outcome  of  that  visit  surprised  no  one  more 
than  the  officer  from  police  headquarters. 

The  brief  service  had  ended  ;  the  assemblage 
rose  respectfully  to  permit  the  special  mourners  to 
pass  through  the  room  ;  and  Inspector  Applebee 
found  himself  directly  before  them  as  they  went  on, 
followed  by  many  a  sympathetic  look 

Aunt  Comfort  came  a  little  in  advance  ;  and  then 
the  two  orphaned  girls,  Stella  walking  on  the  side 
nearer  to  the  watching  inspector. 

A  subtle,  delicate  odor  came  to  his  sense  as 
Stella  stopped  for  a  moment,  so  near  that  he  might 
have  touched  her  without  lifting  his  arm — a  faint, 
rare  perfume. 

Instantaneously  the  scent  recalled  a  certain  scene 
to  the  inspector's  mind.  His  thoughts  went  from 
Paul  North's  villa  at  Swampscott  to  Paul  North's 


1 14  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

town  house  in  Marlboro  Street ;  and  he  seemed  to 
find  again,  where  it  had  lain  overlooked  in  the 
master's  house,  a  bit  of  filmy  lace. 

There  could  be  no  mistake,  the  inspector  said 
to  himself,  outwardly  impassive,  but  every  nerve 
quivering  with  excitement. 

With  Stella  North,  almost  as  if  it  were  a  part  of 
herself,  came  that  faint,  yet  penetrating  and  subtle 
odor  which  Inspector  Applebee  had  known  in  all 
his  life  but  once  before  :  when  he  was  keeping 
watch  in  the  house  where  Stella  North's  father  lay, 
cold  in  death. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

UNDER   COVER   OF    THE   NIGHT. 

WHEN  the  yellow  State  House  dome  next  came 
into  Reporter  Thomas's  view  that  Sunday 
after  the  funeral,  he  had  gained  a  deal  of  informa- 
tion about  the  people  at  the  North  villa. 

Quite  naturally,  one  of  the  first  places  he  sought 
was  the  quiet  office  of  Detective  Lamm. 

The  door  being  locked  between  them  and  possi- 
ble intruders,  Mr.  Thomas  began  his  disclosures. 

"  At  the  present  time,  Lamm,"  he  said,  giving 
the  office  chair  a  twirl  before  sitting  down  in  it, 
"there  are  two  things  which  strike  me  as  peculiar. 
There  are  two  men  in  this  case  who  naturally  come 
under  suspicion — one  of  them  because  he  has  no 
history  ;  the  other  because  his  history  is  peculiar." 

"  And  the  man  with  no  history  is  ?" 

"  Thornton  Stackhouse.  You  may  or  may  not 
be  aware  of  the  fact  that  until  he  appeared  in  Bos- 
ton ten  years  ago,  he  was  unknown  to  anybody  in 
these  parts,  and  that  of  his  earlier  life  there  are 
only  extant  to-day  the  vaguest  and  most  conflicting 
rumors.  He  never  refers  to  anything  in  his  life 
more  than  ten  years  old.  So,  as  I  say,  he  has  no 
history." 

"5 


Il6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Umha  !  "  said  Lamm  ;  "  as  you  say,  I  may  or 
may  not  have  been  aware  of  the  fact.  Well,  then, 
as  to  the  other  man  whose  history  is  peculiar  ? " 

"  I  referred,  Lamm,  to  Mr.  Richard  Fetridge,  the 
Apollo  Belvidere  of  State  Street,  the  ideal  lady 
killer,  the  man  whose  personal  appearance  is  the 
principal  thing  about  him  which  would  at  once 
strike  an  observer. 

"  And  why  does  this  man  begin  to  appear  sus- 
picious to  you  ?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  exactly  understand  his  relations 
to  the  North  family,  nor  his  motives  in  his  relations 
to  them." 

"  Tell  me  what  you  know  and  I'll  try  to  help  you." 

"  From  what  people  down  at  the  shore  gossip,  it 
appears  that  Fetridge  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Norths  at  Swampscott  three  years  ago.  The 
young  man  was  boarding  at  some  hotel,  met  the 
young  ladies,  seems  to  have  been  particularly  struck 
with  Marion,  the  elder  daughter,  and  began  to  go 
to  the  house  a  good  deal.  People  will  talk,  you 
know,  and  people  said  that  Fetridge  was  dead  in 
love  with  the  girl,  and  probably  might  have  married 
her  but  for  old  man  North's  opposition." 

"  Ah  !  "  Mr.  Lamm  lit  a  new  cigar.  "  Didn't 
like  the  young  fellow,  eh  ?  " 

"  May  have  liked  him  well  enough,  but  didn't 
want  a  man  without  money  for  a  son-in-law," 
rejoined  Thomas. 

"But  Marion  was  not  his  own  daughter  ?" 

No.     But  he  adopted  her  when  she  was  a  year 


UNDER  COVER  OF  THE  NIGHT.  1 1? 

old,  and  he  had  no  expectation  of  having  a  child  of 
his  own  ;  and  North  seemed  to  think  as  much  of 
her  after  Stella  came  as  before.  Of  course,  one 
way  of  showing  his  liking  was  his  anxiety  to  have 
Marion  well  married.  At  all  events,  the  old  man 
turned  the  cold  shoulder  to  Fetridge,  who  was  only 
a  struggling  lawyer,  with  nothing  but  his  wits  to 
depend  on  for  a  living.  His  visits  to  the  house  sud- 
denly stopped.  About  two  months  after  he  ceased 
to  call  at  the  place,  Marion  North  became  Marion 
Stackhouse." 

"There  was  plenty  of  gossip  about  that  event  at 
Swampscott,  I'll  be  bound,"  was  the  detective's 
comment. 

"  Of  course.  Everybody  said  she  married  Stack- 
house  for  money,  although  she  was  in  love  with  the 
other  fellow.  Some  people  go  so  far  as  to  say  that 
Marion  and  Fetridge  had  some  lovers'  quarrel,  and 
so  separated.  Other  people,  with  whom  Marion  is 
no  favorite,  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  the  young 
woman,  being  one  of  the  cool  and  calculating  kind, 
agreed  with  her  fathe-r  that  Stackhouse  was  a  cer- 
tainty and  the  young  lawyer  only  a  possibility  so 
far  as  money  interests  were  concerned." 

"  Fetridge  is  a  rich  man  now,"  oracularly  declared 
Mr.  Lamm. 

"  Ah  !  If  friend  North  had  dreamed  that  in  a 
few  weeks  Fetridge  would  fall  heir  to  a  very  hand- 
some property  in  Australia,  I  think  our  friend 
Stackhouse  would  have  been  dismissed  for  the 
lawyer.  It  was  an  uncle,  I  hear,  that  left  Fetridge 


n8  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

his  fortune.  Fetridge  went  to  Australia  to  settle 
up  the  estate,  as  perhaps  you  know,  not  in  the  least 
expecting  to  get  much  of  anything.  But  in  nine 
months  he  came  home,  to  everybody's  surprise,  him- 
self included,  a  millionaire." 

"  Exactly  ;  well  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  began  to  feel  drawn  toward  the  Norths 
again.  This  time  the  old  man  was  very  glad  to 
have  him  on  good  terms  with  the  family.  The 
almighty  dollar,  you  know.  I  don't  mean  to  slur 
a  dead  man's  memory,  but  Paul  North  was  a  dis- 
ciple of  Mammon,  if  ever  there  was  one  in  the 
world.  The  question  in  everybody's  mouth  is,  how 
did  Stackhouse  attain  his  extraordinary  influence 
over  Paul  North  ?  I  attribute  it  to  his  cunning 
catering  to  the  old  man  s  strongest  passion — avarice. 
But  not  to  digress.  Fetridge  visited  the  house 
regularly  for  a  month  or  two,  and  it  was  gossiped 
down  at  the  shore  that  the  Apollo  had  turned  his 
attention  to  Miss  Stella.  I  am  not  at  all  certain 
as  to  the  correctness  of  that  assumption  myself, 
Lamm." 

"  He  may  have  had  something  of  his  former  lik- 
ing for  Marion,  you  mean  ?  " 

Mr.  Lamm  found  an  answering  look  from  his 
co-worker  that  made  a  spoken  response  super- 
fluous. 

"  Just  about  a  month  ago,  Lamm,  professional 
business  called  Fetridge  away  from  Boston.  At 
any  rate  that  was  the  explanation  given  by  the 
young  lawyer,  who  appears  to  have  entered  into 


UNDER  COVER  OF  THE  NIGHT.  "9 

quite  intimate  relations  with  the  firm  of  North  & 
Stackhouse  since  he  came  back  from  Australia  with 
his  millions.  A  Water  Street  man  I  saw  at  the 
funeral  told  me  he  believed  Fetridge  backed  the 
concern,  and  went  away  on  some  business  connected 
with  it." 

"  That's  a  mere  guess,"  was  the  detective's  com- 
ment. "  We  must  try  to  get  at  the  real  cause  for 
this  trip.  You  do  not  imagine  that  any  disagree- 
ment with  the  family  or  the  firm  could  have  been  at 
the  bottom  of  it  ?  " 

"  There  was  no  love  lost  between  Stackhouse 
and  Fetridge.  The  cause  of  their  mutual  dislike 
may  or  may  not  be  hard  to  determine,"  said  Thomas, 
in  a  meaning  tone  ;  "  but  I'm  very  certain,  from 
what  has  taken  place  since  Mr.  North's  death — 
Fetridge  did  not  come  back,  you  know,  until  two 
days  before — that  he  is  on  quite  as  good  a  standing 
with  the  family  as  ever.  The  way  in  which  he  was 
trusted  in  the  funeral  arrangements  shows  that 
much,  plainly  enough." 

Mr.  Lamm  knocked  the  ashes  from  his  cigar, 
took  a  turn  up  the  room,  and  coming  back  stopped 
in  front  of  Thomas  as  he  sat  fingering  his  watch 
fob. 

"  There's  a  mystery  about  this  man  Fetridge," 
he  said  with  emphasis.  "What you  have  found  out 
about  him  simply  confirms  my  feeling,  quite  war- 
ranted by  my  own  knowledge  of  the  man  and  his 
circumstances,  that  Fetridge  is  a  person  to  be  very 
carefully  watched.  Mark  my  words,  young  man. 


120  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

The  day  you  find  out  what  secret  is  shared  by 
Marion  North-Stackhouse  and  Richard  Fetridge 
will  mark  a  great  advance  in  the  progress  of  this 
investigation." 

When  detective  and  reporter  parted,  after  some 
further  interchange  of  views,  a  certain  line  of  policy 
was  agreed  upon.  Richard  Fetridge  was  to  be 
kept  constantly  in  sight.  For  the  goings  and  com- 
ings of  the  young  lawyer  in  the  city,  Mr.  Lamm 
declared  his  purpose  to  fully  account,  while  Mr. 
Thomas  was  to  be  the  sentinel  on  duty  at  Swamp- 
scott. 

Not  that  he  intended  by  any  means  to  anchor 
himself  down  there  permanently  ;  but  he  did  pro- 
pose to  provide  himself  immediately  with  some 
means  by  which  he  should  be  kept  informed  of  the 
movements  of  the  aforesaid  gentleman,  and  especi- 
ally of  his  future  associations  with  the  North  family. 
It  was  partly  with  this  end  in  view,  but  more  im- 
mediately with  the  intention  of  testing  Fetridge  by 
a  personal  interview,  that  he  returned  to  Swamp- 
scott  that  very  Sunday  evening,  arriving  there  just 
after  dark.  The  hand  of  Destiny  was  more  active 
in  this  expedition  than  Mr.  Thomas  could  even  in 
the  remotest  degree  have  imagined.  Not  only  was 
the  course  of  his  own  life  determined  thereby,  but 
it  is  just  possible  that  if  he  had  deferred  his  visit 
until  Monday,  as  a  less  eager  investigator  would 
have  done,  the  North  tragedy  might  have  remained 
a  mystery  forever. 

The  slightest  delay  of  the  train,  a  difference  in 


UNDER  CO  VER  OF  THE  NIGHT.  1 2 1 

the  rate  of  his  walk  through  the  town,  a  divergence 
in  the  course  of  his  thoughts — any  of  these  things, 
upon  so  slender  a  thread  do  great  events  sometimes 
hang — would  have  been  equally  fatal  to  his  even- 
tual elucidation  of  the  problem  or  the  progress  of 
the  events  recorded  in  this  narrative. 

But  it  happend  that  he  was  passing  the  North 
estate  a  little  before  nine  o'clock,  and  that  just  then 
the  whim  seized  him  to  enter  the  broad  gateway 
and  have  a  look  at  the  silent,  gloomy  mansion  upon 
which  the  heavy  pall  of  death  and  ill-fortune  had 
visibly  fallen.  There  might  be  something  stirring — 
some  face,  some  light,  some  whispered  conversation, 
perhaps — or  was  it  that  the  sweet,  sad  face  of  North's 
orphaned  daughter  still  haunted  him  and  lured  him 
out  of  his  path  ? 

At  all  events  it  would  not  necessitate  much  of  a 
delay,  for  the  abiding  place  of  Richard  Fetridge 
was  but  a  short  distance  beyond.  At  first  sight  it 
did  not  seem  possible  that  he  should  gain  anything 
by  entering  the  grounds.  There  was  not  even  a 
light  visible  from  his  standpoint  on  the  driveway. 
It  might  have  been,  thought  Mr.  Thomas,  some 
long  abandoned  ruin  for  all  the  semblance  of  life 
that  could  be  seen  about  it. 

He  was  turning  away,  when  his  attention  was 
attracted  by  a  noise  close  by  him  as  of  a  window 
cautiously  opened,  and  immediately  after  he  became 
aware  of  the  flutter  of  white  skirts  at  a  window  in 
the  second  story.  Instinctively  he  drew  back  into 
the  bushes.  The  night  was  dark,  but  the  phos- 


122  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

phorescent  gleam  that  seems  to  distinguish  objects 
even  in  a  dark  landscape,  enabled  him  to  see  that 
somebody  had  emerged  from  the  window  and  was 
coming  down  a  trellis  work  into  the  garden.  He 
heard  the  snapping  of  the  frail  wood  work,  the 
cracking  of  the  vine  that  clung  to  it,  and  finally  the 
precipitate,  probably  unintentional,  drop  to  the 
ground,  and  the  accompanying  thud.  But  the 
figure  gathered  itself  up  quickly — came  toward 
him — passed  him — breathing  with  audible  excite- 
ment. 

It  was  a  figure  veiled  and  closely  muffled  in  a 
long  cloak — the  figure  of  a  woman. 

"  Is  it  one  of  the  servants  ? "  Thomas  asked 
himself,  as  he  observed  her  hurried  steps  until  the 
gate  was  reached,  her  backward  glance,  as  if  hesi- 
tating for  a  moment  whether  to  go  on  or  to  return, 
and  then  a  quick,  almost  headlong  flight  directly 
up  the  street  in  the  direction  of  Marblehead. 

"  She  cannot  be  going  to  the  town,  at  any  rate, 
whoever  she  may  be,5'  was  Mr.  Thomas's  mental 
comment.  "  Is  she  a  thief  or  a  servant  ?  I  shall 
make  it  my  business  to  know  more  about  the  matter, 
at  all  events." 

With  a  stealthy  tread,  quite  as  noiseless  as  that 
of  the  cloaked  figure  hurrying  before  him,  Thomas 
followed  the  woman,  keeping  her  as  well  in  sight  as 
the  darkness  would  permit. 

Regarding  one  point  there  could  be  no  doubt  in 
the  watcher's  mind.  The  fugitive  knew  the  road 
she  was  taking,  and  followed  it  with  a  fixed  purpose. 


UNDER  COVER  OF  THE  NIGHT.  123 

Mr.  Thomas  began  to  find  it  a  matter  of  some  diffi- 
culty to  keep  her  within  view,  especially  as  the  thick 
foliage  made  the  darkness  in  some  places  very  black 
indeed.  Suddenly  the  woman  left  the  road,  and  ran 
across  the  lawn  of  a  private  estate. 

Thomas  hastened  after  her,  expecting  to  see  her 
enter  at  the  servants'  door.  But,  to  his  surprise, 
she  avoided  the  house,  and  eventually  came  out 
upon  the  rocks  behind  it,  overlooking  the  sea. 

"  She  is  going  out  upon  the  shore,"  muttered  the 
reporter  to  himself,  as  he  saw  her  climbing  down 
out  of  view  from  the  higher  land  on  which  he  stood. 

It  was  a  moonless  night,  and  only  now  and  then 
could  be  observed  the  trembling  light  of  a  star. 
Most  of  the  sky  was  heavily  overcast,  but  near  the 
eastward,  where  the  cloud  and  the  ocean  seemed  to 
touch,  there  was  a  broad  band  of  comparative 
light. 

Do  what  he  might  in  the  way  of  precaution,  the 
reporter  stumbled  once  and  fell  heavily.  Fearing 
that  the  sound  might  have  startled  the  human  mag- 
net that  had  thus  drawn  him  toward  the  ocean's 
verge,  Thomas  did  not  rise  for  a  moment.  But 
when  he  gained  his  feet  and  looked  cautiously 
ahead,  the  figure  was  still  going  onward  at  un- 
checked speed. 

"  Utterly  absorbed  in  what  she  has  in  mind," 
thought  Thomas.  "  And  going  straight  toward 
the  water  too  !  I  don't  know  much  about  this  dis- 
trict, but  I  think  there  is  a  little  point  of  rocks  out 
yonder,  just  in  the  direction  the  woman  is  taking. 


124  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

What  if  the  creature  should  have  come  to  this 
lonely  spot  at  night  to  end  her  life  ?  " 

Startled  at  the  thought,  the  reporter  made  haste, 
so  that  in  case  of  emergency  he  might  be  ready  to 
act. 

Nearer  and  nearer  he  approached  the  unknown 
wanderer.  She  stood  still  at  last  upon  a  rock  that 
overhung  the  water  that  plashed  monotonously 
along  the  long  beach. 

The  night  wind  swayed  the  folds  of  her  cloak  as 
she  remained  there  for  a  moment  like  a  statue. 

Her  veil,  too,  was  blown  to  one  side,  but  her 
look  was  out  to  sea,  and  the  eager  eyes  of  the 
watcher,  crouching  now  in  a  little  grassy  hollow 
close  at  hand,  could  not  catch  even  a  fleeting 
glimpse  of  her  face. 

Suddenly,  with  a  quick  motion,  the  woman  drew 
something  from  her  breast,  and  cast  it  waterwards 
with  all  her  strength.  The  effort  seemed  to  ex- 
haust her,  for  she  sank  down  a  moment,  clasping 
her  hands  before  her  face. 

The  weakness  was  only  transient.  With  nervous 
hands  she  pulled  the  veil  over  her  face  and  wrapped 
the  long  cloak  closely  around  her.  Almost  head- 
long was  the  haste  with  which  the  figure  turned 
toward  the  road  again. 

Looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  she  passed  very 
near  the  man  who  had  thus  played  the  spy  upon 
her.  No  affrighted  fawn,  thought  Thomas,  could 
have  run  more  fleetly,  under  the  spell  of  any  dread 
whatsoever. 


UNDER  COVER  OF  THE  NIGHT.  125 

For  an  instant  the  reporter  was  in  quandary. 
He  desired  to  do  two  things  at  once — to  follow  the 
fleeting  figure  :  to  stop  and  investigate.  He  stood 
up,  looking  after  her. 

"  Queer  thing  !  "  he  thought.  "  She  is  not  go- 
ing back  to  the  North  villa  ;  at  least,  not  by  the 
same  route  by  which  we  have  come.  She  continues 
on  the  road  toward  the  Philips  Beach  station. 
Can  it  be  that  this  woman  has  been  kept  here  in 
hiding,  and  is  going  away  ?  Perhaps,  if  I  hurry,  I 
can  still  overtake  her." 

He  stumbled  hastily  across  the  rocks  to  the  place 
where  she  had  stood  when  she  threw  the  something, 
which  had  aroused  his  curiosity,  toward  the  water. 
It  was  well  nigh  a  hopeless  quest.  He  stood  for  a 
moment  in  the  very  attitude  which  he  had  seen  her 
occupy,  the  lonesome  swash  of  the  sea  in  his  ears, 
measuring  the  distance  with  his  eye,  and  trying 
to  calculate  the  limit  of  her  force.  He  walked 
down  slowly  in  a  straight  line  to  the  very  edge 
of  the  water.  The  tide  seemed  very  near  the 
flood. 

"Quiet  hopeless.  Not  a  chance  in  a  million," 
he  said  at  once.  "  But  if  I  mark  the  spot  and  the 
height  of  the  tide,  by  daylight  to-morrow  I  can  in- 
vestigate with  possible  chance  of  success." 

He  was  looking  about  him  for  some  object  by 
which  to  secure  the  necessary  landmarks,  when  his 
glance  was  attracted  to  a  glittering  something  on  a 
point  of  rock  about  which  the  water  flowed.  Even 
as  he  looked  a  wave  dashed  over  it,  obscuring  it 


126  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

for  the  time,  only  to  leave  it  gleaming  in  a  reflected 
light  again  as  the  dark  element  receded. 

An  astonished,  incredulous  stare  !  No,  it  could 
not  be  ;  yet  it  would  pay  him  to  make  sure  ! 

He  drew  off  his  shoes  and  socks  and  prepared 
himself  for  the  effort  of  investigation.  A  few  cau- 
tious steps  brought  him  so  near  that  there  could  be 
no  mistake.  He  uttered  an  involuntary  cry,  and 
plunging  forward,  regardless  of  a  thorough  wetting 
from  an  unexpected  wave,  grasped  the  glistening 
object  in  his  shaking  hand. 

It  was  a  pistol ! 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHO       IS      SHE? 

IF  Reporter  Thomas  had  been  previously  curious 
about  the  identity  of  the  fugitive  from  the  North 
household,  this  curiosity  had  suddenly  intensified 
into  acute  anxiety  now  that  he  had  discovered  the 
nature  of  her  misson  to  the  water  side.  Rather 
than  she  should  escape  him  at  this  moment  he 
would  willingly  forfeit  a  month's  salary.  He  felt 
the  keen  excitement  of  the  man  who  finds  himself 
on  the  verge  of  a  momentous  discovery. 

Thrusting  the  pistol  into  his  pocket,  he  hastened 
to  assume  his  clothing,  and,  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
made  up  the  road  in  the  direction  the  woman  had 
gone.  He  reached  the  Phillips  Beach  station,  only 
to  find  it  black  and  deserted.  There  was  the  sol- 
itary figure  of  a  man  crossing  the  open  space  near 
by.  Thomas  hastened  to  accost  him. 

"  Has  the  last  train  gone,  sir  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Train  !  "  echoed  the  man.  "  There  is  no  train 
from  here  to-night.  The  train  leaves  from  Swamp- 
scott  station  at  9.26.  It's  not  a  great  way  down 
the  track,  but  I'm  afraid  it's  too  late,"  he  added, 
looking  at  his  watch. 

A  sudden  thought  came  like  an  inspiration  to 
the  reporter. 

127 


128  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  You  didn't  see  a  woman  running  down  that 
tract  a  moment  or  two  ago,  did  you  ? " 

"  Why,  yes,"  returned  the  man,  evidently  struck 
with  the  coincidence.  "  I  did.  She  asked  me  the 
very  same  question  you  did,  and  started  off  in  chase 
for  the  train,  but  it  was  a  good  ten  minutes  ago. 
The  fact  was,  the  whole  thing  struck  me  as  so 
peculiar  that  I  went  after  her  a  bit,  but  somehow 
she  gave  me  the  slip.  I  must  say  I  never  saw  a 
woman  who  could  get  over  the  ground  so  fast." 

Thomas  waited  to  hear  no  more, 'but  was  off  like 
an  arrow  down  the  dangerously  dark  road  bed. 

It  was  a  fruitless  chase.  Entirely  out  of  breath, 
he  reached  the  Swampscott  station  just  in  time  to 
see  the  doors  closed.  A  man  bearing  a  lantern 
eyed  him  curiously  as  he  came  upon  the  platform. 

"  Last  train's  gone,"  he  said,  curtly. 

"  I  know,"  said  Mr.  Thomas.  "  It's  rather  hard 
luck  that  of  mine  to-night.  Fate's  against  me 
sure.  I  had  a  mishap — a  ducking,  as  you  see  :  and 
what  with  one  thing  and  another,  I  have  been 
baulked  every  way.  I  wouldn't  care  only  that  a 
lady  was  to  meet  me  here  and  go  to  Boston  with 
me  in  the  train." 

"  Lady  with  a  veil  and  long  cloak  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  She  went  on  in  the  train  without  you,  my  friend. 
Sorry  for  you,  but  there's  one  chance  yet.  You 
may  catch  that  horse  car  into  Boston,  by  way  of 
Lynn,  if  you  hurry." 

Mr.  Thomas  was  perfectly  aware  of  this  fact,  but 


WHO  IS  SHR?  129 

he  thanked  the  man  with  the  lantern  very  grate- 
fully and  set  out  on  a  run  for  the  corner  indicated. 

The  car  was  passing  just  as  he  arrived,  and 
Thomas  went  with  it  as  it  rattled  its  slow  way  into 
Boston — a  slowness  that  was  magnified  a  hundred 
fold  by  the  reporter's  keen  impatience.  He  was 
anxious  to  examine  the  weapon  of  which  he  had  so 
strangely  become  possessed,  but  he  did  not  con- 
sider it  prudent  to  do  so  until  he  was  free  from 
observation.  The  opportunity  arrived  at  last  under 
an  electric  light,  in  a  quiet  street  in  the  city. 

"Calibre?."  he  mentally  commented.  "Thirty- 
two!  I  thought  as  much.  The  old-fashioned  four- 
barrelled  pepper-box  of  a  kind  in  use  before  the 
war.  Ah!  Sharp's  patent,  1859.  Probably  a  rem- 
iniscence of  North's  younger  days.  Breech-loading 
too.  There's  no  aim  to  the  thing  at  long  range  ; 
but  it's  a  deadly  weapon  in  a  hand-to-hand  conflict. 
And  it  contains  at  present  ?  Let's  see.  How  do 
you  get  the  confounded  thing  open  ?  Ah  !  by  this 
little  button  above  the  trigger.  So,  so.  Three 
full  cartridges  and  one  empty  shell.  The  smut  of 
the  powder  is  still  upon  the  muzzle.  Recently 
fired,  and  not  yet  cleaned  !  Why,  what  fool  could 
have  taken  so  little  pains  to  conceal  a  guilty 
fact?" 

He  hastily  thrust  the  pistol  from  sight  and  drew 
a  long  breath.  A  coincidence  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. He  no  longer  doubted  the  importance  of  his 
discovery.  Luck — or  was  it  fate  ? — had  strangely 
favored  him. 


13°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Mr.  Thomas  walked  toward  Scollay  Square  in 
deep  reflection. 

"  Servant  or  some  one  in  hiding,"  he  queried. 
"  One  or  the  other,  assuredly.  If  a  servant,  we 
must  look  for  another  motive  than  any  Lamm  and 
I  have  considered.  If  some  one  in  hiding,  pro- 
tected at  the  house  by  some  other  person  knowing 
of  the  crime,  then  it  is  all  the  more  necessary  that 
Swampscott  should  be  watched.  I  may  have  to 
leave  town.  If  so,  Lamm  must  be  kept  informed." 

By  this  time  Mr.  Thomas  had  reached  the  bor- 
ders of  the  district  where  life  is  stirring,  n; 
well  as  day. 

It  was  late,  but  not  so  late  that  the  hack 
always  inclined  to  social  propinquity,  were  not  _ 
to  be  found  in  their  accustomed  haunts. 

By  all  the  groups  gathered  in  smoky  "  all  night  " 
restaurants,  or  talking  over  the  merits  and  de- 
merits of  their  respective  teams,  Thomas  was  wel- 
comed as  a  friend  of  long  standing. 

He  took  their  chaffing  about  the  outward  and 
visible  signs  of  his  wetting  with  characteristic  good- 
humor  ;  and  between  repartees  that  brought  a 
broad  grin  to  the  faces  of  his  associates,  managed 
to  introduce  certain  terse  questions  as  to  the  matter 
in  hand. 

"  Eastern  depot  ?  Why,  Big  Jim  had  a  fare 
from  there  to-night.  Here,  Big  Jim,  leave  off  your 
palaver  with  the  dames  at  that  table  a  moment  and 
come  and  see  Thomas  !  " 

Obedient  to  the  summons,  with  ready  good-will, 


IV HO  IS  SHE?  131 

Big  Jim  nodded  to  the  reporter,  and  was  presently 
seated  with  him  at  a  conference  carried  on  by  both 
parties  in  an  undertone. 

"The  fare  was  a  woman,  Thomas." 

"  A  woman  is  what  I'm  looking  for." 

"  Well,  this  one  was  so  wrapped  up  I  couldn't 
make  much  of  her  looks  ;  but  I  will  say  this,  she 
wasn't  old,  and  she  was  scared  at  something  or 
other  almost  to  death." 

"  Where  did  you  take  her,  Jim  ?  " 

"  To  the  Albany." 

"  To  the  Albany  !  "     Thomas's  face  fell. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  just  there.  She  said  to  me  in  a  quick 
sort  of  way,  like  as  if  frightened  at  something, 
1  Hackman,  wont  you  please  take  this  money  and 
buy  me  a  ticket  for  Hartford  ? '  To  be  sure  I 
would,  and  did,  old  man.  The  woman  was  all  of 
a  tremble  when  I  put  the  ticket  and  the  change  in 
her  hand.  She  mumbled  out  something  or  other — 
thank  you,  I  suppose — and  ran  to  the  train, 
although  she  had  fifteen  minutes  to  spare  :  that 
eleven  o'clock  express,  you  know.  Something 
wrong  with  her,  of  course  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that,  Jim,"  answered  Thomas, 
cautiously.  "  I  guess  she  can't  be  the  person  I 
wanted  after  all." 

The  two  parted  excellent  friends  as  always.  For 
an  hour  or  more  the  reporter  worked  at  his  desk. 
Then  he  curled  up  in  his  chair  for  a  nap,  impress- 
ing upon  one  of  the  "  night-owls  "  there  on  duty  to 
wake  him  at  4.45  without  fail. 


132  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

When  the  gong  clashed  at  the  Albany  station  at 
five  the  next  morning,  among  the  passengers  on  that 
early  train — well-named  "  accommodation," — was 
Mr.  Thomas.  In  one  hand  he  held  a  copy  of  the 
city  edition  of  the  morning  Bosto?i  Globe.  The  other 
held  a  ticket  to  Hartford. 

It  was  10.30  before  the  Charter  Oak  city  was 
reached.  Mr.  Thomas's  first  efforts  brought  him 
into  contact  with  the  Jehus  of  the  Connecticut 
capital. 

It  was  not  at  all  a  difficult  matter  to  find  the 
whereabouts  of  the  solitary  hack  driver  who  waited 
for  a  chance  passenger  on  the  night  trains  ;  but 
Tom  Ludlow  was  asleep,  and  the  reporter  found 
the  time  on  his  hands  until  noon. 

"  How  are  you,  sir  ?  "  said  Ludlow,  stretching 
himself  and  yawning  as  he  met  the  inquirer  who  had 
been  waiting  for  his  awakening.  Both  were  at  the 
door  of  the  hotel-stable.  "  A  lady  fare  ?  Yes. 
She's  safe  enough.  Friend  of  yours — relative  !  " 

Mr.  Thomas  thereupon  set  forth,  with  much 
earnestness,  that  he  had  missed  the  young  woman 
through  an  unavoidable  accident,  that  they  were 
going  to  a  friend  in  Hartford,  and  that  he  had  been 
much  disturbed  over  the  fact  that  she  had  been 
obliged  to  make  the  journey  at  night  alone. 

"  Naturally,"  he  said  in  closing,  "  I  am  anxious 
enough  about  her.  She's  a  timid  girl ;  too  young 
to  be  out  alone  like  this.  But  I  couldn't  help  it.  I 
hope  you  bestowed  her  safely  somewhere.  At  her 
friend's,  I  suppose  ?  " 


WHO  IS  SHE?  133 

The  coachman  flicked  a  fly  off  the  post  near 
which  he  was  standing  with  great  accuracy. 

"  You  are  wrong  there.  Her  friends  were  out  of 
town.  The  girl  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  cried 
and  took  on.  Course  I  felt  sorry  for  her,  and  I 
drove  her  to  the  hotel.  Knowing  the  night  clerk, 
I  just  said  a  word  in  his  ear  that  the  lady  was  all 
right,  and  he  gave  her  a  room.  Curious,  though, 
why  she'd  wrap  herself  up  so  !  I  didn't  get  a  peek 
at  her  face  at  all." 

"  She's  not  been  well  at  all  recently.  Fact  is,  the 
journey  was  partly  taken  on  account  of  her  health," 
answered  the  reporter.  "  But  I  am  greatly  indebted 
to  you  for  the  kindness  you  have  shown  her  under 
these  unfortunate  circumstances.  Here's  a  two- 
dollar  bill  to  prove  it.  Take  it,  man  ;  it's  all  right. 
And  now  where  is  the  lady  ?  " 

"  In  the  house,  yonder,"  returned  Ludlow,  point- 
ing with  his  whip.  "  I  registered  her  name  as 
'  Miss  Brown,  Boston.'  The  clerk  will  find  out  for 
you  whether  she  is  up  yet." 

The  City  Hotel  register  bore  the  name,  and  the 
clerk  listened  with  professional  courtesy  to  Mr. 
Thomas's  statement  of  the  case. 

"  We've  not  seen  her  yet,"  he  said.  "Very  likely, 
however,  she  may  be  up  and  dressed  by  this  time. 
I  will  send  up  your  card  if  you  wish.  Front !  " 

Mr.  Thomas,  taking  a  blank  card  from  the  pigeon 
hole,  wrote  hurriedly  the  following  name,  which  a 
bell  boy  soon  carried  to  room  X.  : 

MR.  WILLIAM  C.  WATERSTON. 


134  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Whoever  she  may  be,  she  will  be  frightened,  I 
suppose,  at  reading  this  elaborate  name,"  Thomas 
thought.  "  But  I  must  see  her  at  all  hazards." 

In  a  moment  the  boy  had  returned,  bearing  the 
card  in  his  hand. 

"  I  knocked  two  or  three  times,  sir,  pretty  loud, 
but  couldn't  make  any  one  answer,"  he  said. 
"  There  wasn't  a  sound  in  the  room  that  I  could 
hear." 

The  sudden  look  of  alarm  on  Thomas's  face  was 
not  lost  upon  the  clerk.  He  glanced  at  the  clock, 
and  noted  that  the  hands  pointed  at  half-past  twelve. 

"  Tell  the  chambermaid  of  the  floor  to  open  the 
room,"  he  said. 

While  the  order  was  being  carried  out,  Thomas 
stood  motionless  at  the  desk,  the  prey  of  a  vague 
apprehension. 

It  was  the  chambermaid  herself  who  came  to  the 
office  with  the  key  of  room  X.  in  her  hand. 

"  There's  no  one  in  the  room,"  she  declared, 
with  eagerness.  "  The  bed  has  not  been  slept 
in,  and  the  woman  must  have  stolen  away  during 
the  night." 

Mr.  Thomas  looked  blankly  into  the  clerk's  face. 
A  very  slight  lifting  of  the  shoulders  was  the  only 
comment  of  that  functionary. 

The  reporter  caught  its  meaning.  "  The  poor 
girl  must  be  out  of  her  head,  and  is  wandering  about 
somewhere,"  he  said.  "  Permit  me  to  pay  the  bill 
for  her  lodging."  The  clerk  bowed.  "  Should  she 
chance  to  return- while  I  am  away,"  he  added,  "  you 


WHO  IS  SHE?  135 

will  detain  her,  I  am   sure  courteously,  but  firmly. 
How  unfortunate  !     How  very  unfortunate  !  " 

"  It  is  barely  possible  that  the  lady  may  have 
been  frightened  away,  if  she  was  in  a  state  of 
nervous  prostration  as  you  intimate,"  remarked  the 
clerk,  more  cordial  in  manner  now  that  the  little 
account  for  the  night's  lodging  had  been  settled. 
"  But,  upon  my  word,  I  cannot  understand  why. 
There  were  only  five  or  six  other  guests  on  the 
floor,  and  they  were  quite  people,  all  of  them." 

Once  more  Mr.  Thomas  betook  himself  to  the 
neighborhood  of  the  stable  and  was  fortunate 
enough  to  find  Ludlow  there,  making  ready  for  his 
accustomed  call  at  the  railway  depot. 

"  Who  were  in  the  office  when  you  left  the  young 
lady  last  night  ? "  he  asked.  "  Can  you  recollect  ?" 

Ludlow  pondered  a  moment. 

"  Let  me  see.  The  night  clerk.  The  night 
porter." 

"  Of  course.     Anybody  else  ? " 

"  Why,  yes.  Stern  was  there — Officer  Stern.  A 
policeman,  you  know.  Merely  having  a  friendly 
chat  with  the  clerk." 

"  Do  you  think  the  lady  noticed  him  ? " 

"  May  be  so — may  be.  Anyhow,  Stern  noticed 
her.  We  all  did.  How  could  we  help  it  ?  Muffled 
up,  nervous,  hurrying  off  to  her  room." 

Quite  certain  that  in  this  unexpected  apparition 
of  a  policeman,  he  had  found  the  cause  of  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  fugitive,  Thomas  set  out  once 
more  on  his  search. 


136  WRITTEN  IX  RtD. 

The  first  trace  of  what  might  perchance  prove  to 
be  the  fugitive  was  found,  half  an  hour  later,  at  a 
little  restaurant  much  frequented  by  early  market- 
men  not  far  from  the  waterside. 

"  Yes,  a  woman  like  you  describe  came  here  about 
four  o'clock  this  morning,"  answered,  to  Thomas's 
inquiries,  the  old  man  who  kept  the  place.  "  She 
took  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  sandwich  and  asked  me 
the  road  to  Windsor  Locks.  A  very  pleasant- 
spoken  female.  She  thanked  me  kindly  through 
her  veil  when  I  showed  her.  I  told  her  she  had 
better  sit  down  and  rest  awhile  ;  that  the  streets 
and  roads  were  no  place  for  a  woman  at  that 
hour.  Then,  if  you'll  believe  it,  she  started  up 
and  ran  away.  She  took  that  street  yonder  to- 
ward East  Hartford  bridge.  I  had  half  a  mind 
to  call  after  her  that  she  was  going  the  wrong  way 
if  she  wanted  to  get  to  Windsor  Locks,  but  she  was 
out  of  sight  before  a  cat  could  wink,  and  I  couldn't 
leave  the  shop.  Out  of  her  head,  you  tell  me? 
Poor  creetur !" 

The  street  which  the  reporter  now  followed  led 
directly  to  the  river  and  the  bridge  separating  the 
busy  capital  from  the  quiet  village  of  East  Hartford. 

A  sudden  thought  as  he  approached  the  stream 
sent  a  chill  to  his  heart.  He  stopped  at  the  boat- 
house  to  ask  if  anybody  had  been  seen  to  pass 
during  the  night,  but  no  watch  had  been  kept. 
After  most  perplexing  uncertainty  for  several  mo- 
ments, Thomas  decided  to  cross  the  river  and  seek 
for  developments  in  the  little  town  beyond. 


WHO  IS  SHE?  137 

A  milk  wagon  was  jogging  on  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  jingling  cans,  as  Thomas  turned  into  the 
broad  main  street.  It  halted  at  a  pleasant  farm- 
house not  far  from  the  river. 

"Just  back  from  the  city?"  asked  Thomas  of 
the  pleasant-looking  man,  with  sun-tanned,  hairy 
face,  as  he  laid  the  reins  over  the  back  of  his 
well-fed  bay. 

"  Yes,  sir.  It  takes  a  goodish  while  to  make 
my  rounds." 

"  Pardon  my  question,  but  it  is  one  of  great 
interest  and  importance  to  me.  When  did  you 
set  out  ?" 

"A  little  after  four." 

"And  did  you  chance  to  meet  a  woman,  all 
wrapped  up  in  a  cloak,  on  your  way  over  ? " 

"  Ah  ! "  answered  the  milkman,  interested  at  once. 
"  I  told  Jim  there  was  something  queer  about  her. 
Yes,  I  did  see  her,  and  stopped  her,  too,  just  about 
where  you  are  standing  now,  sir." 

"  The  poor  woman  is  not  responsible  for  what 
she  is  doing,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  am  searching  for 
her  now." 

"  Ah  ! "  The  milkman  smacked  his  lips  in  his 
eagerness.  "  Take  her  in  charge,  eh  ? " 

Thomas  nodded. 

"  Well,  sir,  she  is  as  quick  a  traveler  afoot  as  I 
ever  see,  man  or  woman  ;  and  goodness  only  knows 
where  she  has  got  to  by  this  time.  It  was  so  un- 
common to  see  such  a  figure  that  I  took  a  pretty 
close  note  of  her  hurrying  along  from  the  bridge, 


138  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

and  I  put  myself  right  in  the  way  all  of  a  sudden 
on  purpose.  She  gave  a  little  frightened  scream, 
and  put  out  her  hand  to  me  appealing  like.  It  was 
as  white  a  hand  as  I  ever  see,  sir  ;  she's  never  had 
any  rough  work  to  do,  I'll  be  bound,  poor  thing  !  " 

" '  I'm  not  meaning  you  any  harm,'  I  says  to  her, 
while  Jim,  like  an  idiot,  stood  staring  at  her  over 
the  gate  with  his  mouth  open.  '  But  for  a  young 
woman  like  you  to  be  racing  along  mad-like  at  this 
hour  of  the  night,  it  isn't  exactly  the  right  thing,  is 
it,  miss?  I  put  it  to  you  frankly,  you  know.'  She 
clasped  her  hands  despairingly,  and  said,  '  You 
don't  know!  You  can't  know !  Do  not  try  to 
stop  me,  for  mercy's  sake  ! '  But  I  see  the  poor 
thing  was  wellnigh  fagged  out,  and  I  just  took 
her  arm  and  walked  her  into  the  kitchen,  where 
my  good  woman  stood  quite  dumfounded.  'Sit 
you  down  there,'  I  says,  putting  her  into  a  chair 
at  the  table.  Breakfast  hadn't  been  cleared  away, 
as  good  luck  would  have  it.  '  Wife,'  says  I,  '  give 
the  girl  as  good  a  warm  meal  as  you've  got. 
Now  you  must  eat  and  drink  ;  you  must  make  out 
a  good  breakfast,'  I  says,  shaking  my  head  at  the 
girl,  'or  I  shant  let  you  go.  If  you  don't  want  us 
to  look  at  you,  all  right :  we'll  keep  away.  But 
whatever  your  errand,  you  need  strength  to  carry 
it  out.'  " 

Thomas  was  listening  with  impatient  eagerness, 
but  he  could  not  forbear  a  word  of  sincere  thanks. 

"  Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  farmer.  "  Who 
could  'a  done  different  ?  Well,  to  make  a  long 


WHO  IS  SHEt  139 

story  short,  I  watched  her  eat,  but  I  must  say  a 
canary  bird  might  have  made  out  a  bigger  break- 
fast than  did  this  frightened,  trembling  creature. 
We  begged  her  to  stay  and  rest,  wife  and  I,  but  she 
wouldn't  hear  of  it ;  and,  after  thanking  us  both 
like  a  lady,  she  set  out  Burnside  way,  and  Jim  and 
I  went  over  t'  the  city.  Poor  girl  !  Out  of  her 
head  ?  Well,  well,  tell  you  what :  better  get  a  team 
somewhere.  She's  far  ahead,  you  know." 

No  better  advice  could  be  offered  or  followed. 
In  a  few  moments  Thomas  was  driving  the  fastest 
horse  the  village  livery  stable  afforded  ;  and  clouds 
of  reddish  dust  marked  his  rapid  progress  eastward. 

He  heard  of  the  fugitive  twice. 

Once  she  had  stopped  to  drink  at  a  wayside  well, 
and  a  group  of  children  had  watched  her  as  she 
rested  a  moment  and  then  went  on,  closely  cloaked 
and  veiled,  though  the  morning  was  sultry. 

Once  she  had  stopped  at  a  farmer's  door  for  a 
glass  of  milk — for  a  sick  traveler  in  the  road  above, 
she  had  said,  in  hurried  explanation — bringing  the 
glass  back  after  a  moment  with  faintly-spoken  ye! 
earnest  thanks. 

As  his  horse  slackened  his  pace  just  as  a  diffi- 
cult sandy  hill  was  being  surmounted,  Thomas's 
glance,  taking  in  the  broad  expanse  of  landscape, 
brilliant  under  the  rays  of  the  westering  sun,  caught 
sight  of  a  solitary  woman's  figure  on  a  slope  to  the 
left. 

The  roads  crossed  just  at  the  summit  of  the  hill ; 
and,  urging  his  horse  to  the  utmost,  Thomas  soon 


140  WRITTEN'  IN  RED. 

came  within  view  of  the  figure  again  ;  this  time  not 
far  away. 

Did  the  unknown  journeyer  have  some  premoni- 
tion that  she  was  pursued  ?  It  would  seem  so,  for 
she  started  like  a  hunted  creature  as  the  sound  of 
rapidly-rolling  wheels  drew  nearer,  and  ran  into 
the  thick  wood  that  skirted  one  side  of  the  road  as 
if  in  desperate  search  of  refuge. 

Thomas  leaped  from  his  carriage  and  was  at  her 
side  in  an  instant.  His  touch  on  her  shoulder 
seemed  to  paralyze  all  power  of  motion. 

She  gave  a  stifled  cry.  The  long  cloak,  already 
tangled  in  the  thicket,  fell  to  her  feet.  With  a  last 
vain  effort  to  go  on,  she  staggered  and  reeled. 

As  she  fell,  fainting  and  worn,  in  his  arms,  the 
veil  that  had  concealed  her  features  for  so  many  a 
weary  hour  became  freed  from  its  fastenings  and 
drifted  away. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  Thomas  almost  gave  way 
himself  in  the  shock  of  discovery  and  the  following 
revulsion  of  feeling. 

"  Stella  North  !  " 


CHAPTER  XI. 

IN    DANGER. 

"REPORTER  THOMAS  had  no  time  to  con- 
IX.  struct  theories  to  account  for  what  had  hap- 
pened. For  whatever  reason,  Stella  North  was  the 
woman  he  had  unwittingly  followed,  and  Stella 
North  was  the  woman  who  now  lay  in  his  arms,  as 
devoid  of  life,  to  all  appearances,  as  the  twigs  upon 
which  her  dainty  feet  were  dragging.  He  looked 
into  her  face  for  the  moment  with  helpless  irresolu- 
tion. The  dictates  of  common  humanity  would 
have  impelled  him  to  pity  her,  but  it  was  no  ordin- 
ary pity  that  filled  his  soul  on  this  occasion.  He 
had  been  aware  ever  since  the  day  she  flashed  upon 
him  that  appealing  glance  as  her  sister  was  leading 
her  from  the  room  at  Swampscott,  of  a  peculiar 
interest  more  romantic  and  tender,  perhaps,  than 
he  as  a  matter-of-fact  man  was  free  to  admit  to 
himself. 

But  the  present  emergency  demanded  prompt 
action.  He  could  see  plainly  enough  that  it  was 
not  merely  fright  that  had  caused  her  to  lose  con- 
sciousness. Nature  had  bestowed  upon  her  a  face 
charming  in  its  natural  roundness  of  outline  and 
ready  always  to  break  into  dimpled  smiles  ;  but, 
141 


142  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

alas  !  horror  and  deprivation  of  sleep  and  food  had 
wrought  a  wicked  change  in  a  few  days. 

As  she  lay  with  her  head  thrown  back,  her  lips 
parted,  her  eyes  closed,  her  hair  strayed  recklessly 
about  her  temples,  she  looked  as  if  she  had  just 
died  after  a  painful  illness.  Thomas  hastened  with 
her  out  of  the  sight  of  possible  curiosity.  A  few 
steps  brought  him  deep  enough  into  a  protecting 
wood  that  fringed  the  roadside,  and  here,  in  the 
leaves  beneath  the  trees  where  the  birds  were  sing- 
ing, he  laid  her  gently  down.  His  experience  in 
the  art  of  restoring  fainting  women  to  conscious- 
ness had  been  extremely  limited,  but  he  believed  in 
the  efficaciousness  of  alcohol,  and  always  carried 
when  traveling  for  use  in  an  emergency  a  flask  of 
brandy.  A  little  of  this  strong  remedy  poured 
down  the  throat  half-strangled  the  victim,  but  it 
awoke  her.  Her  eyes  opened  and  she  regarded 
him  languidly.  He  had  seen  a  dying  bird  look  just 
that  way. 

"  Come,  Miss  North,  you  feel  better  now,  don't 
you  ? "  he  said  awkwardly,  as  he  supported  her 
head  upon  his  arm.  And  then  when  a  sudden 
betrayal  of  fear  and  shame  surged  into  her  white 
cheeks  he  hastened  to  add — "  There  now,  there's 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  Not  the  least  in  the 
world." 

She  made  an  effort  to  disengage  herself  and  to 
arise,  but  she  was  very  weak,  and  she  only  sank 
back  again  with  a  pathetic  sigh.  The  tears  came 
into  her  eyes  at  once,  and  she  was  unable  to  con- 


IN  DANGER.  143 

ceal  her  weakness  or  to  check  it.  Faster  and  faster 
they  chased  each  other  down  her  cheeks.  Her 
face  was  wet  with  them. 

Thomas  watched  her  with  increasing  consterna- 
tion. He  who  had  time  and  again  passed,  appar- 
ently unmoved,  through  the  most  terrible  and 
heartrending  of  scenes,  had  now  to  make  a  great 
effort  to  retain  control  of  himself.  But  as  a  mat- 
ter of  fact  it  is  improbable  that  the  girl  detected 
any  evidences  of  agitation  in  his  naturally  imper- 
turbable countenance. 

"  Come,  Miss  North,"  he  murmured,  "  this  will 
never  do.  You  must  not  give  way  like  this.  Don't 
despair.  If  there  is  anything  wrong,  you  may 
depend  upon  me  to  help  you  all  I  can." 

"  Oh,  it's  not  I  who  need  the  help,"  she  moaned, 
quite  light-headed  by  reason  of  her  long  sufferings  ; 
and  grasping  his  sleeve  with  her  little  hand  she 
exclaimed  with  sudden,  passionate  intensit)%  "  Oh, 
don't  let  them  arrest  her.  Don't  let  them  hang 
her.  Marion  never  could  have  done  it  in  her  right 
mind.  She  was  out  of  her  head,  you  know.  You 
are  sure  she  was,  are  you  not  ?  " 

This  unexpected  entreaty  was  a  surprise,  but  it 
was  a  most  welcome  one  to  Thomas.  He  had  not 
had  an  opportunity  for  deliberate  thought  since  he 
had  recognized  who  it  was  that  had  thrown  away 
the  compromising  weapon  with  the  suspicious 
smudge  upon  it,  and  fled  from  the  North  villa  in 
the  most  damaging  of  circumstances  ;  but  in  a 
vague,  general  way,  his  heart  had  been  conscious 


144  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

of  the  weight  of  the  accepted  theory  that  she  was 
in  some  way  implicated  in  the  dark  work  of  the 
tragedy.  And  now  these  wild,  hysterical  words, 
delivered  under  the  pressure  of  her  overstrung 
emotions,  gave  him  more  than  a  hope  that  she  was 
innocent  of  any  part  in  the  hideous  crime. 

Innocent !  How  could  anybody  look  upon  this 
child  and  doubt  her  innocence  ?  Reporter  Thomas 
certainly  could  not,  and  he  gave  up  trying  to,  with 
a  feverish  alacrity  that  was  not  entirely  charac- 
teristic of  him.  Comprehending  enough  of  the 
situation  to  enable  him  to  act  intelligently,  he 
began  at  once  a  long  attempt  to  soothe  her.  And 
behold  another  miracle  !  This  stern  man,  whose 
stoicism  was  the  wonder  of  his  associates,  had  sud- 
denly become  as  patient,  as  gentle,  and  as  delicate 
as  a  woman.  He  smoothed  her  hair.  He  wiped 
away  her  tears.  He  induced  her  to  take  a  little 
more  of  the  brandy.  By  repeatedly  assuring  her 
that  her  sister  was  in  no  danger,  and  afterwards 
by  turning  her  attention  to  other  things,  he  brought 
her  once  more  into  a  condition  of  sanity.  She  was 
not  permitted  to  test  her  strength  upon  her  feet, 
but  she  sat  up  against  a  tree,  and  began  to  regard 
her  companion  with  great,  round,  wistful  eyes,  with 
an  air  of  mingled  timidity  and  impulsive  confidence. 

"  And  now,  Miss  North,"  said  Thomas  at  last. 
"  It  is  absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  leave  you 
for  a  few  minutes.  Will  you  promise  me  not  to 
stir  until  I  return  ?  I  will  be  gone  just  as  short  a 
time  as  possible." 


IN  DANCER.  145 

"  You  are  so  kind,"  she  said  faintly.  "  If  it  is 
for  me,  you  are  going,  I  hope,  really,  you  wont 
trouble  yourself.  In  a  few  minutes  I  shall  be 
stronger  and  can  go  on." 

"  We'll  talk  about  that  after  I  come  back,"  he 
said  cheerfully.  "And  meantime  I  have  your 
promise  not  to  stir  ?  " 

"  Since  you  are  so  good,  I  can  refuse  you 
nothing,"  she  returned  wearily,  and  closed  her 
eyes. 

Thomas  was  off  at  an  energetic  pace.  He  first 
tied  his  horse  to  a  tree,  and  then  ran  on  to  the 
nearest  farmhouse.  A  well-to-do-looking  woman, 
with  a  sunny  face,  appeared  at  the  door  in  answer 
to  his  knock. 

"  Madam,"  said  Thomas  hastily,  "  I  have  to 
apologize  for  my  unexpected  call,  but  the  fact  is, 
I  am  in  great  need  of  food — the  best  you  have  and 
plenty  of  it.  I'll  pay — anything.  Only  let  me 
have  it  at  once." 

"  But  I  can't,"  said  the  woman  ;  "  I  haven't  a 
thing  in  the  house  to  eat  ! " 

"  But  I  must  have  something,"  exclaimed 
Thomas  ;  "  if  it's  nothing  but  milk  and  water. 
The  case  is  very  urgent.  Here,  do  what  you  can 
for  me." 

He  thrust  a  five-dollar  bill  into  the  good  woman's 
hand.  She  thrust  it  back  promptly. 

"  Here,  I  don't  want  your  money,"  she  said 
rather  stiffly.  "  Such  as  I  have  you're  welcome  to. 
Come  in." 


146  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

She  led  the  astonished  Thomas  into  an  ample 
pantry,  which  was  in  a  condition  of  neatness  that 
was  almost  painful.  But  it  needed  no  power  of 
divination  to  determine  that  it  was  the  pride  of  the 
good  woman's  life,  and  the  shelves  fairly  groaned 
with  good  things.  Thomas  was  dumb  with  de- 
lighted amazement. 

"  Well,"  said  the  housewife,  evidently  enjoying 
the  condition  of  stupefaction  to  which  she  had 
reduced  him,  "  do  you  see  anything  you'd  like  ?  If 
so,  you  are  welcome." 

"  The — the  fact  is,"  stammered  Thomas,  "  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  pay  for  it.  I — I — you  see  I  might 
carry  away  a  little  more  than  I'd  like  to  ;  for  the 
fact  is  I've  got  a  friend  just  back  here  in  the  woods, 
and  she — he's  starving  to  death." 

The  woman  laughed  outright.  Of  course,  she 
did  not  believe  that  anybody  was  dying  for  the 
want  of  food  in  this  land  of  plenty.  The  best 
Thomas  could  do  was  to  effect  a  compromise. 
The  woman  accepted  "a  dollar  for  the  heathen." 
Thomas  took  away  all  he  could  well  carry. 

As  the  reporter  approached  the  place  where  he 
had  left  Stella  North,  he  began  to  have  some  fears 
that  she  had  deserted  him  in  spite  of  her  promise  ; 
but,  no.  There  she  was,  still  sitting  against  the 
tree,  as  he  had  left  her.  No,  not  as  he  had 
left  her.  Completely  exhausted,  she  had  fallen 
asleep. 

Thomas  placed  his  bundles  upon  the  ground  and 
softly  arranged  the  repast  he  had  secured  from  the 


IN  DANGER.  147 

farmhouse  upon  a  light  robe  he  had  taken  from  the 
carriage.  From  the  bowl  of  fresh  milk  to  the 
golden-brown  custard  pie  it  was  genuine  and  whole- 
some ;  and  though  he  would  fain  have  had  Young's 
chief  cook  at  his  command  for  an  hour  or  two,  still 
he  hoped  that  she  could  not  fail  to  find  the  display 
attractive  and  appetizing. 

But  he  hesitated  to  wake  her.  The  poor  child 
slept  as  only  one  utterly  worn  out  can  sleep.  He 
looked  at  her  more  attentively,  and  his  heart  accel- 
erated its  pulsations. 

"  What  a  pity,"  he  thought,  "  that  she  should  be 
so  compromisingly  mixed  up  in  such  an  affair  as 
this  !  Young  and  charming  as  she  is,  if  the  police 
knew  what  I  know  they  would  not  hesitate  a  min- 
ute to  arrest  her." 

The  thought  clouded  his  brow.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  getting  late.  Unless  he  pro- 
posed to  turn  her  over  to  the  police,  in  truth,  time 
pressed. 

"  Ahem  ! "  he  exclaimed.     "  Miss  North  !  " 

But  her  sleep  was  too  deep  to  be  disturbed  by 
such  an  expedient.  He  placed  his  hand  gently 
upon  her  shoulder,  and  a  thrill  ran  through  him  at 
the  contact.  She  started  up  and  stared  wildly 
about  her.  Gradually  the  truth  came  to  her.  She 
awoke  from  a  happy  oblivion  to  the  horror  of  the 
past  few  days.  The  sudden  frightened  look  in  her 
face  proclaimed  this  fact.  And  then  her  eyes  wan- 
dered from  the  reporter's  face  to  the  collation 
spread  at  her  feet. 


148  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  For  me  !  "  she  exclaimed.     "  Oh  !— " 

But  nothing  but  tears  bespoke  her  thanks.  She 
was  evidently  ashamed  to  betray  herself  so  ;  but 
she  was  too  weak  to  prevent  it.  She  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  sank  down  at  the  foot  of 
the  tree. 

"  You  think  me  foolish,  I  know,"  she  stammered. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it,"  said  Thomas.  "  I  think  your 
nerves  are  quite  unstrung,  because  you  haven't 
taken  nourishment  enough.  Eat  something,  Miss 
North,  I  beg  of  you  ;  and,  my  word  for  it  you'll 
feel  better." 

By  dint  of  much  persuasion  and  adroit  manage- 
ment he  reassured  her,  so  that  she  actually  smiled 
the  very  ghost  of  a  smile,  but  it  betrayed  the  pres- 
ence of  a  merry  dimple  in  her  cheek,  which  Thomas 
thought  quite  charming. 

"  How  can  I  thank  you  ?  "  she  murmured. 

"  By  eating  all  you  can,"  he  returned. 

And  she  did  endeavor  to  show  her  gratitude  in 
that  way.  From  time  to  time  she  looked  at  him 
with  a  glance  of  dread  and  apprehension. 

"  You  are  not  afraid  of  me,  Miss  North,  I  hope  ?  " 
he  said  at  last,  pleasantly.  He  was  smiling  now, 
as  he  sat  on  a  rock  near  by  watching  her  eat,  which 
she  did  with  that  ravenous  appetite  that  comes  of 
absolute  starvation. 

"  Excuse  me,"  she  said,  after  an  evident  effort, 
"  but  you  are  the  same  gentleman  who  called  at 
our  house — who  used  to  know  my  father  ?  " 

Thomas  flushed  a  little  and  his  eyes  fell. 


IN  DANGER.  149 

"Miss  North,"  he  said,  "I  don't  intend  to  de- 
ceive you.  I  am  a  newspaper  reporter." 

She  uttered  a  slight  scream  and  dropped  her 
knife  and  fork  into  her  plate.  At  another  time 
Thomas  would  most  certainly  have  laughed  aloud 
at  the  unmistakable  consternation  produced  by  the 
announcement  of  his  profession.  As  it  was,  he  re- 
pressed his  tendency  to  smile  when  he  saw  her  lips 
whiten  under  the  cruel  apprehension  that  had 
sprung  to  life  within  her. 

"  You  mistrust  me,  Miss  North,"  he  said,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  returned,  in  a  voice  barely  audible. 
And  added  immediately,  "  For  pity's  sake,  sir,  do 
you  intend  to  print  what  I  told  you  when  I  was  so 
crazy  awhile  ago  ? " 

"  Do  I,  Miss  North  ?  It  depends  upon  whether 
or  not  you  go  on  with  your  dinner." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  joke  about  a  thing  like  this  ? " 

"  Miss  North,  I  am  not  joking.  I  never  was  more 
serious  in  my  life.  It  is  absolutely  imperative  that 
you  eat." 

The  poor  girl  tried  to  propitiate  him  by  swallow- 
ing a  few  hasty  mouthfuls,  but  it  was  evident  that 
he  had  taken  her  appetite  away.  She  regarded 
him  with  a  look  of  pathetic  appeal. 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  exclaimed  suddenly,  "  I  am  only 
a  poor  girl,  and  chance  has  placed  me  completely 
at  your  mercy.  Don't  torment  me,  I  beseech  you. 
Tell  me  the  worst  at  once.  What  do  you  intend  to 
do  with  me  ?  " 

"  To  save  you,"  answered  Thomas. 


1 50  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  To  save  me  ?"  she  repeated,  helplessly.  "  From 
what  ?  " 

"  From  the  consequences  of  your  conduct." 

"  Mine  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  do  you  mean  ? 
I  have  done  nothing." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Thomas.  "  You  forget  the 
pistol  which  you  threw  away,  and  your  flight  from 
home." 

She  stared  at  him  for  a  long  time  like  a  statue. 

"  And  you  believe — "  she  began  at  last,  with  an 
awful  look  in  her  face. 

"  I  believe  nothing,"  he  interrupted,  "  so  much 
as  I  believe  you,  Miss  North.  It  is  not  a  question 
of  me,  but  of  the  police." 

"  The  police  ! "  she  stammered. 

"  Miss  North,"  said  Thomas,  "  I  would  not 
frighten  you  needlessly,  but  I  feel  compelled  to 
tell  you  that  you  have  placed  yourself,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  law,  in  a  very  equivocal  position. 
Unless  you  can  give  a  full  explanation  of  your 
conduct — " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  broke  in,  "  I  can  tell  the  police 
nothing — absolutely  nothing." 

She  wrung  her  hands  and  looked  about  her  ap- 
prehensively. 

"  It's  not  because  I  am  guilty  of  anything — oh, 
sir,  you  know  that !  But  I  cannot  say  what  I  have 
thought,  what  I  have  been  compelled  to  believe  in 
spite  of  myself.  I  have  said  things  to  you  already 
when  I  did  not  realize  what  I  was  doing  which  I 
never  meant  to  have  repeated  to  any  human  being. 


IN  DANGER.  151 

And  you — on  your  honor,  sir  ! — wont  you  keep  my 
secret?" 

"  I  will  do  everything  I  can  for  your  sister  for  your 
sake,"  said  Thomas.  "  But  I  must  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion. What  reason  had  you  to  believe  her  guilty  ?" 

"  I  do  not  believe  it.  No,  I  will  not  acknowl- 
edge that  I  ever  really  believed  it.  But  for  one 
moment  when  her  strange  actions  seemed  unac- 
countable upon  any  other  supposition,  I — but  it 
was  a  mistake,  sir.  I  am  sure  of  it.  She  could 
explain  everything  if  she  would." 

"  There,  there !  "  said  Thomas,  soothingly. 
"  Don't  get  excited.  You  are  as  safe  with  me  as 
you  could  possibly  be  with  any  one.  I  simply 
wanted  to  have  the  assurance  from  your  lips  that 
you  are  unaware  of  the  fact  of  any  crime." 

"  Oh,  believe  me,  sir." 

"  I  do,  Miss  North.  I  believe  you  implicitly,  and 
I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  help  you." 

"You  are  very  noble,  sir." 

"  You  flatter  me,"  said  Thomas,  averting  his 
eyes.  "  I  have  sisters  of  my  own  and — " 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Arid  for  their  sakes— " 

"  No,  for  your  sake,"  said  Thomas,  turning 
quickly  to  look  toward  the  road. 

"  You  spoke  of  that  dreadful  pistol,  sir !  "  she 
cried  suddenly.  "  Tell  me  how  you  know  !  " 

"  I  saw  you,  Miss  North." 

"  And  the  pistol  is—" 

"  In  my  pocket." 


152  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

She  stretched  out  her  hands  impulsively,  while  a 
wild  light  of  hope  lighted  in  her  face. 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  she  exclaimed. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Thomas,  "  but  I  must  re- 
fuse you  that.  Believe  me,  it  pains  me  to  be  obliged 
to  refuse  you  anything." 

«  You — wont  give  it  to  me,"  she  faltered.  "  And 
what,  then,  do  you  propose  to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  frank  with  you  now  as  ever,  Miss 
North,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "  I  intend  to  give 
it  to  the  police." 

She  swayed,  but  his  arm  prevented  her  from 
falling. 

"  Come  !  come  !  "  he  exclaimed,  in  a  quick  whis- 
per, as  for  the  moment  he  held  her  close  to  his 
rapidly-beating  heart.  "  Be  a  woman  !  Do  your 
duty  as  I  shall  do  mine  !  I  have  promised  you  my 
protection — my  utmost  effort  on  behalf  of  yourself 
and  your  sister.  Miss  North,  will  you  trust  me?" 

Impulsively  she  brought  her  face  very  near  to 
his  and  turned  the  light  of  her  blue  eyes  full  into 
his  dark  ones.  It  was  an  intense,  fearful,  searching 
stare  ;  a  look  such  as  one  might  cast  into  the  future 
at  a  fork  in  the  road  of  life  between  lasting  happi- 
ness and  despair.  His  gaze  never  faltered,  but  hers 
did.  She  bhished,  and  suddenly  became  self-con- 
scious, and  precipitately  looked  down  at  the  ground. 

"  I  will,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

"  You  are  in  imminent  danger,"  he  said  hastily. 
"  There  is  no  time  to  lose.  Follow  me." 

And  as  he  turned  from  her  she  obeyed  him  with 
the  trusting  confidence  of  a  little  child. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THOMAS   DECLINES   TO    STATE    THEORIES. 

A  BOUT  ten  o'clock  on  Monday  morning  a  tele- 
11  phonic  message  came  over  the  wires  from  the 
chief  of  police  at  Lynn  to  the  Boston  police  head- 
quarters which  seriously  interfered  with  the  habitual 
imperturbability  of  Inspector  Applebee. 

"Whatever  does  this  signify  ?"  he  demanded  of 
the  chief  inspector.  "  That  youngest  North  girl 
has  disappeared." 

"  No  !  "  exclaimed  his  superior,  in  a  tone  of  sur- 
prise. "  How  can  that  be  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  how  it  can  be  ;  it  is,"  Applebee 
declared.  "  She  left  the  house  some  time  last  even- 
ing. They  did  not  discover  her  absence  till  this 
morning.  A  hurried  search  of  the  neighborhood 
traces  her  to  the  railroad  station,  where  she  took 
the  last  train  for  Boston." 

"  That's  a  queer  family,  anyhow,"  commented  the 
chief  inspector,  with  a  very  puzzled  air.  "  Applebee, 
have  you  tried  to  ascertain  whether  there  isn't  in- 
sanity in  the  blood  ?" 

"  Plague  take  it  !  What  was  I  thinking  of  not  to 
have  put  a  man  to  watch  her  last  night  ?  I  thought 
of  it,  but  it  seemed  an  absurd  precaution  !  "  fumed 
153 


154  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

the  inspector.  "  However,  her  flight  the  minute 
the  funeral  is  over  does  away  with  any  lingering 
doubt  I  may  have  had  of  her  complicity  in  the 
crime." 

"  Better  put  White  on  her  track  at  once.  Then 
see  me  and  let  us  have  a  word  or  two." 

Inspector  White  having  been  despatched  to  the 
Eastern  depot  with  instructions  to  find  the  fugitive 
at  any  cost,  Inspector  Applebee  returned  to  the 
private  office  of  his  superior.  The  chief  carefully 
closed  the  door. 

"  Applebee,"  he  said,  as  he  resumed  his  chair, 
"  if  I  understand  you  definitely,  there  is  nobody,  so 
far  as  known,  who  benefits  a  cent  by  North's  death 
except  his  daughter  Stella?" 

"  Exactly,  inspector.  You  are  to  understand 
just  that.  There  is  not  the  slightest  indication  of 
robbery  or  theft.  Both  the  property  in  the  house 
and  the  personal  property  on  North's  person  were 
intact.  Nobody  benefits  but  this  girl.  Just  two 
months  ago  he  took  out  a  ten  thousand  dollar  pol- 
icy in  her  favor  in  the  Penn  Mutual." 

"And  are  you  sure  he  has  effected  no  other  in- 
surance? " 

"  I  cannot  find  that  he  has,  or  that  he  ever  did." 

"  Isn't  it  rather  peculiar  that  he  waited  all  these 
years  and  then  made  her  his  sole  beneficiary  in  this 
way  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.  His  other  daughter  is  married, 
and  he  probably  considered  her  amply  provided  for, 
and  the  outlook  of  business  affairs  might  have 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.     1 55 

warned  him  that  it  would  be  prudent  to  heave  over 
an  anchor  to  the  windward.  But,  whatever  his 
reason,  the  fact  is  indisputable.  There  it  is,  in 
black  and  white.  The  woman  who  used  the  perfume 
I  have  been  looking  for  is  the  sole  person  to  profit 
by  Paul  North's  death.  It's  a  curious  coincidence, 
to  say  the  least,  that  the  two  clues  should  implicate 
the  same  person.  And  yet  a  seventeen-year-old 
girl  like  this — oh,  I  can't  believe  it ;  that's  all." 

"  Applebee,"  said  the  chief,  "  I  begin  to  realize 
that  we  are  in  a  very  delicate  position  in  this  matter. 
It  calls  for  our  nicest  discrimination  and  judge- 
ment." 

"  I  should  say  as  much." 

"  Let  us  see  what  we  know.  We  have  established 
circumstantially  beyond  a  reasonable  doubt  the 
identity  of  the  woman  who  was  in  the  Marlboro 
Street  house  at  or  after  the  time  of  North's  death  ; 
the  woman  who,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  must  be  an 
accessory  after  the  fact." 

"  So,  indeed." 

"  Instead  of  some  adventuress,  the  woman  turns 
out  to  be  North's  own  daughter,  a  mild-faced,  inno- 
cent-looking girl  of  seventeen." 

"So,  indeed." 

"Well,  now  to  my  mind,  unless  the  girl  is  crazy 
(and  we  have  no  evidence  that  she  is),  she  never 
could  have  shot  her  father." 

"  It's  a  pretty  serious  thing  to  charge  her  with  it." 

"  You  don't  believe  it  ?  " 

"  I'm  hardly  prepared  to  dispute  the  evidence." 


156  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Very  well,  then,  there  is  only  one  exp  anation. 
She  knows  who  did  it,  and  she  runs  away  to  avoid 
questions." 

"  It  looks  so." 

"  And  as  she  never  could  reconcile  her  conscience 
to  such  action  unless  the  guilty  party  were  very 
near  or  very  dear  to  her — " 

"  Stackhouse  again  ! "  said  Applebee  signifi- 
cantly. "  There's  no  way  out  of  it.  Unless  some- 
thing turns  up  in  his  favor,  I've  got  to  arrest  that 
man." 

"  It  looks  so.  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  make  a 
mistake." 

"  Nor  I.  It's  not  like  taking  some  poor  beast 
into  custody.  A  mistake  like  that  only  redounds 
to  our  discredit." 

"Very  well.  Wait  a  day  or  two.  Something 
more  must  come  out.  Let  us  find  this  girl.  It 
wont  take  much  to  frighten  her  thoroughly.  She 
will  tell  us  everything  she  knows.  Meanwhile,  you 
are  sure  Stackhouse  cannot  take  French  leave?  " 

"  Trust  me  for  that.  McMannus  and  Robbins 
are  both  keeping  their  eyes  upon  him.  So  long  as 
he  behaves  himself  he  can  do  as  he  pleases.  At 
the  first  cause  for  suspicion  they  will  bring 
him  in." 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Mr.  Mendell,"  said  the  messenger,  "  to  see  Mr. 
Applebee." 

"  It's  the  writing  expert,"  said  Applebee.  "Send 
him  in." 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.    157 

Mr.  Mendell  appeared,  bearing  under  his  arm  a 
small  portfolio. 

"  Good-morning,  gentlemen,"  was  his  greeting. 
"  And  what  do  you  think  of  the  news  ?  No  surprise 
to  you,  I  suppose." 

"What  news?"  questioned  the  chief  inspector, 
gruffly. 

"  Why,  the  collapse  of  North  &  Stackhouse,  to 
be  sure.  What,  hadn't  you  heard  ?" 

The  two  officials  were  staring  at  each  other. 

"  Where  did  you  hear  that,  Mendell  ?"  Applebee 
asked. 

"Where?  Everywhere.  It's  all  over  town.  Of 
course  circumstances  make  everybody  talk  about 
it.  All  sorts  of  rumors  are  afloat  as  to  the  cause 
of  it.  Some  say  it  wouldn't  have  occurred  but  for 
North's  death.  Others  say  it  had  to  come  anyway — 
that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time.  But,  plague 
take  it  !  that  wasn't  what  I  came  for." 

"  What  do  they  say  is  the  cause  of  the  firm  fail- 
ing ?  "  asked  the  chief  inspector,  with  every  appear- 
ance of  intense  interest. 

"  Well,  as  I  hear  it,  they've  been  doing  business 
lately  chiefly  on  wind.  Oh,  it's  an  awful  smash 
up.  They  say  Fetridge,  the  young  millionaire,  was 
a  considerable  loser.  In  fact,  they  say  all  sorts  of 
things,  as  they  always  do  at  such  times,  but  I  don't 
know  how  true  they  are." 

"Who  is  this  Fetridge?"  the  chief  inspector 
inquired  of  Applebee,  as  if  the  name  were  new  to 
him. 


158  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Why,  he's  the  man  who  came  here  to  get  us  to 
search  the  house  in  Marlboro  Street  last  Thursday. 
A  friend  of  the  family,  I  believe.  At  any  rate,  he 
was  at  the  funeral." 

"  And  what  are  the  rumors,  Mendell  ?  "  pursued 
the  chief  inspector. 

"  About  Fetridge  ?  Well,  it's  reported  that  he 
held  the  firm  up  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  as  it 
were,  until  North's  death,  out  of  regard  for  the  old 
man  ;  but  that  Stackhouse  tried  to  see  him  since 
and  got  the  cold  shoulder.  They  say  that  Stack- 
house  and  Fetridge  are  anything  but  friends." 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Applebee.  "  But,  turning  from 
gossip  to  business,  what's  your  report?" 

"  Well,  gentlemen,"  returned  Mendell,  briskly 
opening  his  portfolio  and  extracting  therefrom  sev- 
eral papers,  "  I  don't  know  that  I  can  help  you  a 
great  deal,  but  I'm  satisfied  of  one  thing.  Out  of 
all  the  specimens  of  writing  which  Jobson  presented 
for  my  inspection,  there  are  not  five  which  could 
have  been  done  by  the  party  who  prepared  the 
anonymous  letter." 

"  There  are  four  then  ?  "  said  Applebee. 

"  Just,"  returned  Mendell,  spreading  the  samples 
upon  the  table  ;  "  and  there  you  have  them." 

"  And  how  about  your  preference  ?  " 

"  I  have  none.  You  see,  the  writing  of  the  orig- 
inal is  too  shaky  to  be  a  good  guide.  It  is  evi- 
dently a  disguised  hand,  but  at  the  same  time  not 
disguised  by  a  person  who  understood  how  to  dis- 
guise handwriting.  Evidently  when  he  had  written 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.    159 

it  he  thought,  because  it  didn't  have  the  general 
appearance,  to  his  eye,  of  his  own  writing,  it  was 
consequently  sufficiently  blind  to  deceive  anybody. 
I  don't  believe  the  peculiarity  of  the  formation  of 
the  letters  ever  occurred  to  the  person." 

"  Who  are  these  parties  ? " 

"  Three  of  them  are  business  men.  The  fourth 
was  formerly  a  clerk  in  the  firm's  employ,  but  was 
discharged,  I  believe,  for  drunkenness." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  Applebee.  "  I  know  these  three 
men.  They're  none  of  them  in  need  of  money,  and 
would  not  have  taken  that  means  to  get  if  if  they 
had  been." 

"  It  remains,  then,  with  this  other  fellow — Wil- 
lard  Smith — eh  ?  "  said  the  chief  inspector.  "What 
do  you  know  of  this  man's  history  ? " 

"  Nothingbut  the  few  words  that  Jobson  accident- 
ally let  fall,"  replied  the  expert.  "  -He  said  that 
the  man  was  young  and  industrious.  That  he 
invested  every  cent  in  Nicaragua  Midland,  lost  his 
money,  and  took  to  rum  as  a  consolation." 

"That's  our  man,"  said  the  chief  inspector 
positively.  "  Applebee,  let's  get  to  work  on  this  at 
once." 

There  was  no  time  lost.  Inspector  Applebee 
and  his  assistants  were  soon  scouring  the  city  for 
information  concerning  Mr.  Willard  Smith,  late 
clerk  with  North  &  Stackhouse.  But  the  quest 
presented  some  unexpected  difficulties,  and  when 
Tuesday  morning  came  it  had  not  yet  achieved 
success. 


160  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Applebee  was  scarcely  awake  on  Tuesday  morn- 
ing when  the  following  telegram  was  placed  in  his 
hands: 

"  HARTFORD,  CONN.,  6  A.M. 
"  Important !     Meet  me  at  headquarters  at  n. 

"  WHITE." 

"  Does  he  bring  Stella  North  with  him  ?"  was 
the  grave  question  that  persisted  in  Applebee's 
mind  during  the  intervening  time.  "  If  so,  I  am 
confident  that  we  are  nearing  the  end  of  this 
perplexing  case." 

He  communicated  his  anxiety  to  the  chief  in- 
spector, and  both  men  waited  with  impatience  the 
coming  of  the  man  who  had  gone  in  quest  of 
the  mysterious  fugitive.  Alas,  for  their  hopes  ! 
Inspector  White  was  quite  alone. 

The  three  men  were  closeted  together  as  soon 
as  he  arrived. 

"  Not  a  trace  of  her  ?  "  exclaimed  Applebee  im- 
patiently. 

"  Slipped  through  my  fingers  like  a  fish  !  "  said 
White.  "  Circumstances  very  peculiar.  Whole 
thing  mysterious :  more  than  mysterious — sus- 
picious." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

White  placed  his  hand  impressively  on  Applebee's 
shoulder,  and  though  the  door  was  shut,  spoke  in 
almost  a  whisper : 

"  I  tell  you,  man,  it  is  one  of  two  things.  That 
girl's  either  made  away  with  herself  or  she's  had 
help  to  escape." 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.    161 

"  It's  likely  enough  that  she  had  help  to  escape," 
observed  the  chief.  "  But  I  know  of  no  good  rea- 
son why  she  should  go  outside  of  the  State  of 
Massachusetts  for  the  purpose  of  committing 
suicide." 

"  Wait  till  you  have  heard  me,"  said  White  eager- 
ly. "  Observe  the  facts  carefully.  I  traced  this 
girl  to  the  Albany  depot,  and  through  the  hack- 
man,  who  bought  her  ticket  to  Hartford,  was  able 
to  go  direct  to  her  stopping-place.  There  I  ex- 
pected trouble.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Everybody  knew 
about  her.  Why  ?  Well,  I'll  tell  you  why.  Some- 
body had  got  ahead  of  us  ;  that's  all.  A  black- 
haired  young  man  about  thirty  years  of  age,  who 
wrote  his  name  William  C.  Waterston,  had  been  up 
in  the  morning  making  inquiries  all  over  the  place, 
representing  her  as  insane." 

"  Evidently  an  assumed  name,"  muttered  Apple- 
bee  apprehensively.  "  Couldn't  you  get  a  full 
description  ?" 

"You  may  be  sure  I  did,  even  to  the  cut  of  his 
shoes.  But  wait  a  bit.  I  haven't  got  to  the  end. 
This  young  man  hired  a  carriage  at  East  Hartford 
and  started  out  upon  the  road  in  chase  of  the  girl. 
That  he  overtook  her  I  have  positive  evidence. 
That  she  thereafter  disappeared  and  that  he  went 
on  alone  I'm  equally  well  informed." 

"  What  ? "  ejaculated  Applebee. 

"  Just  as  I  tell  you,"  said  White.  "  I  traced  this 
woman  to  a  certain  place  on  the  road  between 
Hartford  and  Buckland.  Abruptly  all  trace  of 


1 62  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

her  disappears.  She  is  seen  in  conversation  with 
this  man,  and  not  again  by  anybody  in  either 
direction.  Meanwhile  the  man  kept  on  alone.  He 
was  seen  by  several  people  by  himself  in  the  car- 
riage. He  drove  clear  to  Vernon,  sent  the  carriage 
back  to  East  Hartford  by  a  messenger,  and  there 
he  disappears  too." 

"  Great  powers  !  "  exclaimed  the  chief.  "  We're 
outwitted." 

"  For  the  time  it  would  seem  so." 

"  For  the  time  !  "  echoed  the  chief  irascibly. 
"  Don't  you  see  what  this  means  !  The  girl  was  a 
greenhorn.  The  man  was  an  expert.  I'll  bet  you 
a  hundred  dollars  he  had  that  girl  all  the  time  in 
the  bottom  of  his  carriage.  Why  didn't  he  go  back 
to  Hartford  ?  Can't  you  see  his  purpose  ?  The 
New  York  and  New  England  Railroad  runs 
through  Vernon.  By  this  time  both  principal 
and  accomplice  are  safe  in  the  city  of  New 
York." 

The  two  assistants  stared  blankly. 

"  At  any  rate,"  said  Applebee,  "it  plainly  demon- 
strates one  thing.  We're  dealing  with  profes- 
sionals." 

"  Professional  what  ?  "  asked  the  chief  angrily. 
"  What  is  there  in  the  line  of  a  professional  about 
this  affair  ?  Was  there  any  theft,  any  property 
missing  ?  This  isn't  a  burglary,  my  friend  ;  it's  a 
murder." 

"  So,  indeed,"  said  Applebee.  "  But  profes- 
sionals have  been  hired  before  now  to  do  a  job  of 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.    163 

that  kind.  It's  no  use  for  you  to  tell  me  that  this 
chap  doesn't  know  the  ropes,  inspector." 

The  chief  seemed  struck  by  his  remark,  and  be- 
came thoughtful. 

"  Write  out  the  fullest  possible  description  of  the 
man,"  he  said  to  White.  "  We'll  see  what  we  can 
do  ;  though  I'm  afraid  we've  botched  it." 

Inspector  White  took  out  his  notes,  and,  seating 
himself  at  the  table,  began  immediately  to  comply 
with  the  request.  In  the  midst  of  the  work  a  mes- 
senger ventured  to  bring  a  card  to  the  door. 

"  Humph,"  said  the  chief,  "  Kingman  F.  Thomas, 
of  the  Boston  Globe,  is  here,  and  he  says  that  his 
business  is  important  and  immediate." 

"  Let  him  come  in,  then,"  advised  Applebee.  "  I 
tell  you  that  man  cut  his  eye-teeth  years  ago.  If 
he  says  important  he  means  important." 

The  chief  gave  a  sign  of  acquiescence,  and 
shortly  after  the  door  opened  to  admit  Mr.  King- 
man F.  Thomas.  Quietly  dignified,  and  entirely 
master  of  himself,  as  upon  all  occasions,  the  re- 
porter cast  a  quick  glance  upon  the  group.  With- 
out a  word  he  advanced  to  the  table,  inserted  his 
hand  in  his  breast,  took  therefrom  something  en- 
wrapped in  a  newspaper,  and  laid  it  down  before 
the  chief  inspector. 

"  What  is  it,  Thomas  ?  "  queried  Applebee  curi- 
ously. 

"  Look  at  it,"  returned  the  reporter  briefly. 

The  chief  undid  the  wrapping  and  took  out  an 
old-fashioned  32-calibre,  four-barreled,  breech- 


1 64  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

loading  pistol,  about  eight  inches  in  length,  and 
stained  with  rust  in  several  places. 

Everybody  started  and  looked  eagerly  from  the 
weapon  to  the  serious  face  of  the  man  who  had 
brought  it. 

"It  is  just  as  I  found  it,"  he  said  quietly, 
"  with  the  exception  of  the  rust.  I  took  it  out 
of  the  water,  and  I  didn't  care  to  wipe  it  much, 
for  fear  of  destroying  the  smut  on  that  empty 
barrel." 

"  Well,"  said  the  chief,  with  an  assumption  of 
indifference,  "  why  do  you  bring  it  here  ?  " 

"  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  do  so,  sir." 

"  To  be  sure  ;  but  what  makes  you  think  so  ? 
In  other  words,  where  did  you  find  it  ? " 

"  I  found  it  in  the  water  on  the  shore  at  Swamp- 
scott." 

"Swampscott !  "  ejaculated  Applebee,  who  began 
to  examine  the  weapon  with  avidity.  "  The  deuce 
you  did  !  When  ?  " 

"  Sunday  night,  about  nine  o'clock." 

"  Sunday  !  "  echoed  the  chief  inspector  sharply, 
"  and  it  is  now  Tuesday  morning.  You  were  evi- 
dently in  no  haste." 

"  I  went  out  of  town  by  a  very  early  train  on 
Monday.  This  is  the  first  opportunity  I  have  had, 
gentlemen." 

"  How  came  you  to  be  wading  in  the  water  at 
Swampscott  after  dark,  Thomas?"  questioned 
Applebee. 

u  Well,  sir,  it  wont  take  me  long  to  tell  you  what 


THOMAS  DECLINES  TO  STATE  THEORIES.     165 

little  I  know  about  the  matter.  I  stipulate  but  one 
thing.  This  must  not  be  given  to  the  press.  You 
agree  ?  Very  well.  I  was  passing  the  North  villa 
when  I  saw  a  woman  enveloped  in  a  long  cloak 
stealing  out  of  the  garden.  I  followed  her,  deem- 
ing her  appearance  suspicious.  She  went  toward 
the  shore,  and  I  thought  I  saw  her  throw  something 
into  the  water.  Waiting  till  she  had  gone,  I  waded 
out  and  found  this.  I  ran  up  the  street,  hoping  to 
catch  her,  but  missed  the  last  train  in.  She  seems 
to  have  been  in  better  luck." 

The  three  inspectors  exchanged  significant 
glances. 

"  And  you  didn't  see  her  face,  Thomas  ? "  Apple- 
bee  eagerly  inquired. 

"  I  did  not  ;  no." 

"  And  you  have  no  idea  who  she  is  ?  " 

Thomas  hesitated  a  moment  before  replying. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  care  to  state  theories.  You 
have  enough  of  your  own." 

"  Well,  Mr.  Thomas,"  said  the  chief  at  last,  "  I 
think  you  are  entitled  to  our  most  sincere  thanks 
for  important  evidence  in  the  North  case.  Still,  in 
matters  of  this  kind  delays  are  dangerous.  It  does 
seem  as  if  you  might  have  found  some  way  to  get 
this  to  us  before  this." 

"  I  preferred  to  deliver  it  in  person,"  said 
Thomas  quietly.  "  I  never  take  any  chances  in  a 
matter  of  this  importance." 

"  You  prefer  to  be  slow  but  sure,  I  suppose," 
said  the  chief,  smiling.  "  Well,  Applebee,  here  it 


1 66  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

% 

is.  It  wont  take  you  long  to  verify  your  suspicions 
about  it." 

"  I  rather  suspect  that  Thomas  has  already  done 
that,"  Applebee  said. 

"  I  took  that  liberty,  yes,"  agreed  the  reporter. 

"  To  whom  did  you  take  it  ?  " 

"  To  Comfort  Harwood,  Swampscott." 

"  When  ?  " 

"  This  morning — the  only  opportunity  I  have 
had." 

"  And  what  did  she  say  ?  " 

"  She  positively  identified  it  as  the  property  of 
the  late  Paul  North." 

This  appeared  to  be  the  extent  of  Thomas's 
information.  When  he  went  out,  White  said  with 
a  smile  : 

"  Bless  me  if  that  man  wouldn't  stand  as  a  model 
for  this  description  I  am  writing." 

"  Eh  !  "  exclaimed  the  chief  inspector,  turning 
suddenly  in  his  chair.  "  Applebee,  watch  that 
man  !  " 

"  What  ?  Thomas  ?  "  cried  the  subordinate,  in 
amused  amazement. 

"  That  same  Thomas,"  said  the  chief  dryly  ; 
"  unless  you  want  the  newspapers  to  get  ahead 
of  us  in  this  matter.  For  I  tell  you  that  man  knows 
more  than  he  has  told  us." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

STILL    THE    MOISSOT    WOMAN. 

EARLY  in  the  morning  of  the  Monday,  when 
Thomas  was  on  his  way  to  Hartford,  Detective 
Lamm  unlocked  his  office  door.     Almost  the  first 
object  to  catch  his  eye  as  he  entered  the  room  was 
a  folded  note  lying  upon  the  floor. 

"  Am  called  out  of  town  on  an  important  clue,"  ran  the  brief 
lead-pencil  message.  "  Will  see  you  as  soon  as  I  get  back. 
Meanwhile,  look  out  for  developments  at  Swampscott. 

"  TH." 

John  Lamm  was  puzzled  and  curious,  but,  as  he 
had  already  taken  the  additional  precaution  to  put 
both  Moffett  and  an  intimate  friend  of  the  butler, 
the  parlor-maid  at  the  North  villa,  upon  his  salary 
list,  and  was  reasonably  confident  that  they  meant 
to  serve  him  faithfully,  he  was  not  particularly 
anxious. 

He  opened  his  desk,  ran  through  the  letters  that 
had  come,  and  then  sat  back  in  his  chair  to  hastily 
peruse  the  morning  Boston  Globe. 

"  Not  a  thing  new  in  the  case,"  he  mentally  com- 
mented. "  What  a  lot  of  words  that  man  Thomas 
can  string  together  about  nothing,  and  yet  leave 
the  impression  on  our  minds  that  we  have  really 
167 


1 68  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

been  reading  something  important!  Evidently  he 
didn't  think  his  clue  ripe  enough  to  give  it  to  the 
public." 

He  turned  the  paper  over  carelessly.  Suddenly 
he  started  and  clutched  the  newspaper  with  a 
nervous  grasp. 

"  Hullo!  Hullo!  "  he  exclaimed  aloud.  "  What 
the  deuce  does  this  mean  ?  " 

For  there,  staring  him  in  the  face,  was  this: 

"  "1TTANTED. — Information  concerning  the  whereabouts  of 
•  •  Marie  Moissot,  formerly  of  New  Orleans,  recently  of 
New  York ;  Creole  extraction  ;  27  years  of  age.  Large 
reward  will  be  paid  for  reliable  information,  if  sent  immedi- 
ately.— Address,  D.  196,  Boston  Globe  office." 

"  Well,  this  is  a  coincidence,"  Mr.  Lamm  re- 
flected. "  The  same  day  that  my  advertisement  to 
the  same  effect  appears  in  New  York,  the  advertise- 
ment of  some  other  party  appears  in  Boston.  Now, 
who  is  it? " 

A  prolonged  reflection,  leaning  back  in  his  chair 
under  the  stimulation  of  a  fresh  cigar,  was  unpro- 
ductive of  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the  detective's 
query.  But  the  reverie  ended  in  active  measures. 

He  suddenly  arose,  closed  his  desk,  locked  the 
office,  and  went  out.  Bending  his  steps  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Boston  Globe  office,  he  was  soon  con- 
versing with  one  of  the  clerks,  but  the  result  was 
not  propitious. 

"  Oh,  we  don't  pretend  to  know  who  puts  in  any 
of  these  '  wants,' "  the  clerk  said.  "  There  are  too 
many  of  them.  We  know  these  advertisers  only 


STILL  THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  169 

by  the  tickets.  When  a  man  puts  in  a  want,  we 
give  him  a  ticket,  dated  and  numbered  with  a  stamp. 
That  ticket  is  good  for  mail  for  ten  days  from  the 
date  of  it." 

"  Did  you  take  this  '  ad  '  yourself  ?  " 
"  Haven't  a  doubt  of  it  ;  but  I  took  no  note  of 
the  person  who  presented   it.     Couldn't  even  say 
\yhether  it  was  a  man  or  a  woman." 

The  detective  returned  to  his  office  and  began 
a  search  for  suitable  writing  material.  He  was  not 
long  in  finding  what  he  wanted,  for  his  desk  was 
amply  provided  with  stationery  adapted  for  all  pos- 
sible contingencies.  Selecting  a  modest  envelope, 
notepaper  of  a  poor  quality,  a  fine  pen,  and  a  bottle 
of  pale  ink,  he  took  infinite  pains  to  produce  the 
following  : 

"  D.  196,  '  BOSTON  GLOBE  '  OFFICE, 

"  In  answer  to  advertisement  of  this  A.M.,  would  say  I  have 
information  that  may  be  useful.  If  you  care  to  see  me,  will  be 
at  corner  of  Shawmut  Avenue  and  Dwight  Street  at  7  P.M. 
Look  for  lady  with  red  cherries  on  her  bonnet. 

"  CONFIDENTIAL." 

Examining  with  a  critical  eye  this  effusion,  John 
Lamm  became  convinced  that  he  could  not  better 
it,  sealed  it,  and  hastened  to  the  post  office  with  it. 
On  his  return  he  found  one  of  his  assistants  in  the 
office. 

"  You  know  where  this  lady  lives  in  Shawmut 
Avenue  ?"  he  said,  presenting  a  name  on  a  bit  of 
paper.  "  Weil,  get  down  there  before  she  gets 


1 70  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

away,  and  tell  her  that  I  must  see  her  at  once  on 
important  business." 

The  man  departed,  leaving  John  Lamm  in  sole 
possession  of  the  office. 

Eleven  o'clock  brought  him  news  of  the  failure 
of  North  and  Stackhouse,  news  which  he  received 
with  admirable  imperturbability. 

"  And  how  much  do  they  fail  for?  "  he  asked  his 
informant. 

"Everything,  I  hear.  Even  North's  personal 
property  is  likely  to  go.  His  town  house  and  his 
house  at  Swampscott." 

<l  And  in  that  case,  how  much  of  an  inheritance 
does  he  leave  his  daughters  ?  " 

"  Ah,  poor  things  !     Nothing  !  " 

"  So,  so,"  said  John  Lamm  to  himself,  after  his 
informant  had  departed.  "  That's  how  the  wind 
blows,  does  it  !  Well,  it  remains  for  me  to  find  out 
who  profits  by  North's  death,  and  who  by  the 
failure.  Certainly  it  is  neither  Marion  Stackhouse 
nor  Stella  North." 

The  detective  was  not  aware  of  Paul  North's 
little  transaction  in  life  insurance,  and  it  is  not  pro- 
bable that  it  would  have  made  much  difference  in 
his  opinion  if  he  had  been. 

But  John  Lamm's  attention  was  now  taken 
by  the  arrival  of  his  assistant  in  company  with  a 
keen-eyed  woman  about  five-and-thirty,  modestly 
dressed. 

"  Ah,  Miss  Dallison  !  Good-morning,"  said  the 
detective  cordially.  "  Are  you  engaged  to-day  ?  " 


STILL   THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  I? I 

"  Some  things  on  hand,"  she  said,  in  a  brisk, 
business-like  way  ;  "  but  if  it's  important — " 

Lamm  waved  his  hand  toward  the  door  of  his 
inner  office,  and  the  lady  preceded  him  into  the 
small  retiring  room  which  the  detective  preserved 
for  his  most  important  conferences. 

"  And  now,  Bill,"  said  Lamm,  turning  to  his 
assistant,  and  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  "  I  want  you 
to  go  to  Swampscott.  You  know  where  the  North 
villa  is.  You  will  easily  find  it  without  any  obtru- 
sive inquiries,  you  understand.  At  the  upper  right- 
hand  corner,  at  the  part  of  the  house  away  from 
the  water,  is  a  square  tower  with  green  blinds.  If 
a  small  white  handkerchief  is  placed  over  the  sill 
go  to  the  servants'  door  and  deliver  an  express 
package  to  Mollie  White.  Take  that  receipt  along 
v:ith  you  and  have  her  sign  for  it.  She  will  leave 
what  she  has  for  me  in  the  book.  See  ?  If  there 
is  no  signal  by  four  o'clock,  you  may  come  back." 

When  Detective  Lamm  had  despatched  his  as- 
sistant, he  locked  the  door  and  saluted  his  female 
caller  over  again. 

"  Allow  me  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  only  female 
detective  in  America  who  is  worth  her  bread  and 
butter,"  he  said.  "  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  Is  it  because  I'm  so  good  or  the  rest  are  so 
poor,  Mr.  Lamm  ?  "  she  returned.  "  Or  because 
there  isn't  much  money  in  your  case,  and  you  want 
me  to  work  cheap  ?  Or  what  ? " 

"  No,  Miss  Dallison,  I  don't  want  you  to  work 
cheap,"  replied  Lamm,  becoming  serious  and  draw- 


1 72  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

ing  up  a  chair  near  to  her.  "  If  you  can  do  what 
I  want  I  shall  willingly  let  you  put  your  own  price 
on  it." 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  can't  say  yet  just  what  it  will  be.  I  have 
taken  the  liberty  to  make  an  appointment  at  your 
house  with  a  party  unknown  at  seven  this  evening. 
If  the  party  puts  in  an  appearance,  you  will  have 
the  simple  task  of  finding  out  all  he  or  she  knows, 
while  pretending  to  give  him  or  her  some  informa- 
tion which  you  do  not  possess." 

"  Really,"  said  Miss  Dallison,  sarcastically,  "  it 
is  very  simple  indeed." 

"  Unfortunately,"  said  Lamm,  "there  is  no  other 
way  that  I  can  see  to  get  the  information  necessary. 
I  will  tell  you  how  the  case  stands."  And  produc- 
ing the  copy  of  the  Boston  Globe,  the  detective  pro- 
ceeded to  explain  his  plans.  "  You  see,"  he  said, 
in  conclusion,  "  I  merely  desire  to  have  you  per- 
sonate the  writer  of  the  letter  I  wrote  this  morning, 
and  to  draw  out  as  much  as  possible  about  the 
purpose  of  publishing  that  advertisement  from  the 
person  who  turns  up  in  answer  to  my  note.  There 
are  two  things  I  wish  to  find  out — the  first  is,  who 
inserted  the  '  ad,'  and  the  second  is,  what  is  wanted 
of  Marie  Moissot.  And,  incidentally,  if  I  can  find 
out  who  this  Marie  Moissot  is,  why  so  much  the 
better." 

Miss  Dallison  was  exceedingly  dubious  about  the 
result,  but  as  she  was  willing  to  try,  after  arrang- 
ing the  matter  more  in  detail,  Lamm  made  an 


STILL  THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  173 

appointment  at  her  house  for  seven  o'clock,  and 
bade  her  "  good-morning." 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  muttered  Lamm  to  himself, 
when  he  was  alone,  "  this  is  the  first  time  I  ever 
was  employed  in  a  case  where  I  was  obliged  to  go 
to  such  trouble  to  find  out  a  few  facts  which  the 
man  who  employed  me  could  give  me  in  five  min- 
utes, if  he  only  would.  Is  it  because  he  doesn't 
care  to,  or  because  he  doesn't  dare  to  ?  I'll  find 
out,  or  my  name  isn't  Lamm.  I  always  like  to 
know  what  sort  of  a  man  I'm  working  for.  It's 
convenient  sometimes." 

With  these  reflections,  Mr.  Lamm  betook  him- 
self to  other  matters  connected  with  his  puzzling 
and  thus  far  unsatisfactory  quest,  for  he  really 
hadn't  got  far  enough  along  to  be  able  to  form  a 
theory  that  positively  seemed  reasonable  to  him. 

His  assistant  returned  during  the  afternoon. 

"  The  white  rag  was  out  when  I  got  there,"  he 
said.  "  So  I  went  to  the  house  at  once  and  re- 
turned by  the  next  train." 

He  handed  Mr.  Lamm  a  message  sealed  in  an 
envelope,  which  (relieved  of  the  peculiarities  of  its 
orthography)  contained  information  as  follows  : 

"  Stella  North  has  run  away.  Her  bed  was  not  slept  in 
last  night.  Miss  Harwood  had  to  force  open  the  door.  When 
she  saw  the  way  the  room  was  she  fainted  dead  away.  Mrs. 
Stackhouse  attended  her.  She  was  very  pale,  but  did  not  say 
anything.  Moffett  said  she  had  a  '  distracted  '  look  about  the 
eyes,  but  I  couldn't  see  her  different  than  usual.  As  soon  as 
Miss  Harwood  came  to,  Miss  Marion  (she  has  forbid  any  of 
us  to  call  her  Mrs.  — ),  sent  Moffett  to  Mr.  Fetridge's  house. 


174  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

He  came  over  right  away.  They  had  a  long  talk,  which  I  did 
not  hear.  Then  Mr.  Fetridge  took  Moffett  away  with  him  to 
look  for  Stella.  Since  then  Miss  Marion  has  been  in  her  room 
walking  up  and  down.  I  don't  believe  she  has  sat  down  once. 
Just  keeps  walking  all  the  time.  She  must  have  walked  six 
miles.  Moffett  says  that  Mr.  Fetridge  sent  him  to  the  police 
office,  but  he  didn't  go  himself.  Nobody  knew  when  Miss 
Stella  went  out.  She  went  up  to  bed  very  early,  and  we 
thought  she  was  locked  in  her  room  to  cry.  I  hope  this  will 
be  of  service  to  find  her,  as  nobody  could  wish  her  any  harm." 
"P.  S. — She  is  very  different  from  her  sister." 

"Ah!  that  woman  is  a  rough  diamond,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Lamm,  as  he  conveyed  the  letter  to  his 
capacious  pocket-book.  "  A  professional  couldn't 
have  done  much  better  !  " 

"  But  in  the  name  of  wonders,"  his  thought  con- 
tinued, "  what  does  it  all  mean  ?  If  it  had  been 
Marion  I  might  have  understood  it — but  this  sev- 
enteen-year-old baby  !  There  is  some  salient 
feature  in  this  case  that  I  haven't  yet  come  across. 
Now,  what  is  it  ?  Where  shall  I  look  for  the  miss- 
ing link  ?" 

Profoundly  abstracted  and  reserved,  John  Lamm 
continued  to  be  throughout  the  remainder  of  the 
day.  All  the  way  to  the  house  on  Shawmut 
Avenue,  whither  he  betook  himself  rather  in  ad- 
vance of  the  appointed  time,  he  was  not  in  a  con- 
dition to  recognize  acquaintances  or  know  of  what 
sort  the  weather  was.  His  mind  was  wholly  ab- 
sorbed with  the  knotty  problem  that  the  North 
case  now  presented.  The  latest  development  in  it 
had  aroused  a  new  train  of  suspicions. 


STILL  THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  175 

Once  inside  the  modest  rooms  of  the  woman  de- 
tective, however,  Lamm  threw  off  the  burden  of 
speculation  and  devoted  all  his  energies  to  his  im- 
mediate purpose.  The  windows  of  Miss  Dallison's 
front  chamber  (her  suite  was  on  the  second  floor) 
overlooked  the  corner  to  which  Lamm's  letter  of 
the  morning  was  designed  to  lure  the  author  of  the 
mysterious  want  "  ad."  The  detective  reasoned 
that  if  the  advertiser  was  as  importunate  as  he  ap- 
peared to  be,  he  would  surely  call  for  answers 
before  night,  and  unless  there  was  some  more  tan- 
gible reply  from  another  quarter,  the  decoy  was 
sure  to  bring  him.  And  he  was  quite  right.  Miss 
Dallison  was  already  arrayed  in  the  bonnet  with 
the  red  cherries,  and  stock  at  his  side  looking  with 
him  between  the  half-closed  blinds  toward  the 
opposite  corner  when  the  clocks  struck  seven. 

"  Thornton  Stackhouse,  as  I  live  !  "  exclaimed 
Lamm  a  moment  later,  "  and  prompt  to  the  minute  ! 
There  is  your  man,"  he  said  quickly,  pointing  him 
out.  "  Bring  him  here.  I  will  be  in  the  next  room 
as  arranged.  If  he  asks  you  any  questions,  wait  a 
bit  before  answering.  If  the  feather  sways  twice, 
it  means  say  '  yes  ';  if  once,  it  means  '  no."  If  not 
at  all,  you  are  left  to  your  own  discretion.  You 
generally  will  be." 

John  Lamm  referred  to  a  large  peacock's  feather 
ornamentally  arranged  over  a  book-case.  He  had 
connected  it  with  the  adjoining  room  by  a  bit  of 
silk  thread. 

A  very  few  minutes  thereafter  Miss  Dallison  and 


176  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Thornton  Stackhouse  entered  the  front  chamber. 
The  man  took  the  seat  offered  to  him,  back  to  the 
book-case.  If  Miss  Dallison  had  been  familiar  with 
his  personal  appearance,  she  could  not  have  helped 
observing  that  the  lines  of  care  in  his  face  had  deep- 
ened heavily  since  the  day  of  his  partner's  death. 
He  had  the  sleepiness,  worn  expression  of  an  anx- 
ious watcher  by  the  bedside  of  a  serious  illness. 

"  Well,  well,  woman,"  he  said  abruptly,  in  no 
very  conciliatory  tones,  "  I  trust  after  bringing  me 
here  you  don't  disappoint  me.  What  do  you  know 
of  this  Marie  Moissot  ?  Speak  quickly,  for  my 
engagements  are  pressing." 

"  Well,  now,  my  dear  sir,"  began  Miss  Dallison 
in  a  nervous,  high-keyed  manner,  very  unlike  her 
natural  self,  "you'd  better  understand  me, to  begin 
with.  I'm  not  going  to  betray  any  confidences  that 
I  may  have  made  with  any  of  them  as  I  may  be 
pardoned  for  calling  friends  without  I  know  the 
why  and  the  wherefores  of  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  Stackhouse 
darkly.  "  Do  you  expect  me  to  tell  you  my  busi- 
ness with  her  before  I  know  anything  about  you  ? 
You  must  think  me  a  fool.  I  offered  a  reward  for 
information,  and  came  here  to  get  it ;  not  to  give  it." 

"Very  well,  indeed,  sir,  so  you  did,"  returned 
Miss  Dallison  with  a  very  shrewd  air  of  suspicion. 
"But  you  have  to  satisfy  me  that  you  don't  mean 
no  harm  to  a  body,  for  I'll  not  speak  a  word  to 
injure  any  friend  of  mine.  So  that's  just  what  you 
and  I  have  got  to  settle  before  we  go  ahead." 


STILL  THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  1 77 

"  Well,  in  the  first  place,"  said  Stackhouse, 
changing  his  tactics,  "  suppose  we  settle  whether 
you  have  any  information  about  the  person  that  I 
want.  Describe  the  woman  you  refer  to  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sir  !  I'm  no  good  that  way.  She  was 
about  twenty-seven,  dark,  quite  dark — well,  medium 
height,  I  should  say — and  what  I  call  reasonably 
good-looking." 

"  Ah  !  and  what  is  she  doing  for  a  living  ?" 

"  Oh,  there's  where  I  can't  answer,  you  see,  until 
I  find  out  why  you  want  to  know." 

Stackhouse  made  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Has  this  woman  you  speak  of  been  in  Boston 
lately  ?  " 

The  feather  swayed  twice. 

"  I  see  no  harm  in  saying  '  Yes  '  to  that,  sir.  No 
harm.  But  more  I  wont  say.  You  see,  sir,  cir- 
cumstances are  peculiar.  She  confided  me  that 
circumstances  are  peculiar." 

"  You  mean  to  say,  don't  you,  that  she  was  here 
for  private  purposes,  and  that  she  wanted  her 
presence  here  kept  a  secret  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder." 

"  Have  you  known  this  woman  long  ? " 

The  feather  swayed  twice. 

"  A  good  many  years,  sir." 

"And  under  that  name  all  the  time?  " 

"I  decline  to  state  what  names  she  has  gone 
under,"  said  the  woman,  with  considerable  asperity. 
"  You  may  be  one  of  them  detective  fellers.  How 
do  I  know  ?  Coming  up  here  to  pump  evidences 


1 78  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

out  of  a  poor  woman  as  has  herself  to  look  after. 
I  know  fast  enough — I  know  the  woman  you  want. 
I  knew  it  the  minute  I  read  that  in  the  paper. 
But  I  aint  going  to  be  caught  in  no  trap,  nor  I  aint 
going  to  get  into  no  trouble.  So  there's  how  the 
land  lays,  and  you  may  as  well  know  it  first  as  last." 

Stackhouse  seemed  to  be  sitting  on  pins  and 
needles. 

"  Hang  it !  "  he  cried.  "  Don't  be  a  fool  !  I 
have  no  wish  to  harm  her,  nor  you  either.  I  only 
wish  to  see  her  ;  that's  all — to  talk  with  her." 

"Well?" 

"  Is  she  in  Boston  ?  " 

"  That  I  decline  to  say,  sir." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Stackhouse,  coming  to  his  feet.  "  I 
see  she  is,  or  you  wouldn't  be  so  cunning  about  it. 
Now,  where  is  she  ?  In  this  house  ?  Tell  the 
truth.  Didn't  she  herself  send  you  to  answer  that 
advertisement  ?  As  a  matter  of  fact,  isn't  she  lis- 
tening to  this  very  conversation  ?  " 

He  made  a  sudden  movement  toward  the  half- 
open  door  behind  which  Lamm  stood.  But  the 
woman  was  quicker  than  he  was,  and  she  inter- 
cepted him. 

"  Don't  you  dare,  sir  ! "  she  cried,  standing  with 
her  back  against  the  door.  "  She  may  be  and  she 
may  not  be  ;  but  if  you  attempt  to  go  into  that 
room,  I'll  scream  for  help." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Stackhouse  significantly,  "  as  I 
thought.  You  are  too  smart,  woman.  You  have 
betrayed  yourself." 


STILL   THE  MOISSOT  WOMAN.  1 79 

"  Well,  then,"  said  the  woman  doggedly,  "  you 
can't  see  her  ;  that's  all." 

"  Oh  ;  that's  what  she  told  you  to  say,  is  it  ?" 

"  Never  mind.  You  can't  see  her.  If  you've 
got  any  message  for  her,  write  it,  and  I'll  see  that 
she  gets  it,  and  she  will  reply  by  mail.  You  can't 
see  her.  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  try  to,  after 
treating  her  as  you  have."  This  sole  real  bit  of 
information  which  Miss  Dallison  possessed  outside 
of  the  patent  facts  of  the  advertisement,  delivered 
at  this  opportune  time,  must  have  dissipated  any 
doubts  still  lingering  in  Stackhouse's  mind. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  tone,  "  I  will 
write  to  her."  He  turned  toward  the  outer  door, 
and  Miss  Dallison  followed  him.  He  had  actually 
opened  the  door  to  pass  into  the  entry,  and  she  was 
quite  off  her  guard,  when,  with  a  quick  spring,  he 
leaped  back  into  the  room,  thrusting  her  aside,  and 
before  she  could  prevent  him,  had  flung  wide  open 
the  door  to  the  adjoining  chamber. 

But  John  Lamm  was  too  old  a  bird  to  be  caught 
in  any  such  trap.  At  the  first  intimation  of  Stack- 
house's  suspicion  he  had  taken  his  departure. 

The  room  was  empty  ! 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

MR.    LAMM    COUGHS   BEHIND    HIS    HAND. 

"  CLIPPED  through  your  fingers  again,  didn't 

O  she  ?" 

If  the  mocking  face  of  Miss  Dallison  could  be 
depended  upon,  that  business-like  woman  seemed 
to  enjoy  the  discomfiture  and  anger  of  her  victim 
very  keenly.  She  took  up  her  hat,  shook  the  dust 
from  the  deceiving  cherries,  poised  it  a  moment  in 
her  hand,  and  then  said — 

"  Well  ?  " 

Mr.  Stackhouse  acknowledged  his  defeat  with  a 
very  grim  sort  of  smile. 

"  You're  a  clever  pair,  you  two,"  he  said  shortly. 
"  Where's  paper  and  ink  ?  Have  you  got  such 
things  in  this  pantomime-trap  of  a  house  ? "  look- 
ing with  a  scowl  round  the  room  he  had  found 
empty. 

"  Ah !  I  thought  you'd  turn  sensible  after 
a  while,"  rejoined  Miss  Dallison,  briskly  producing 
writing  materials  from  the  caverns  of  what  a  casual 
visitor  would  have  pronounced  a  wardrobe,  but 
which  was  much  more — a  very  arsenal  of  belong- 
ings, some  curious  for  their  oddity,  some  common- 
place enough,  but  all  designed  for  instant  use,  when 
wanted  by  this  extremely  wide-awake  woman. 
180 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      iSl 

Mr.  Stackhouse  did  not  find  the  flow  of  ideas 
quite  to  his  liking.  He  began  and  tore  up  two  let- 
ters, carefully  bestowing  the  fragments  in  his  watch 
pocket.  Finally  he  seemed  to  find  an  inspiration, 
and  his  pen  went  rapidly  over  the  paper,  while  Miss 
Dallison  perused  the  pages  of  the  morning's  2fafta* 
Globe  with  every  appearance  of  lively  interest. 

"  There  !  "  the  visitor  said  at  last,  tossing  his  pen 
aside  and  sealing  up  the  letter.  "  Give  that  to 
Marie  Moissot,  and  mind  you  tell  her  before  she 
opens  it  that  she  will  do  well  to  keep  it  entirely  to 
herself." 

"  The  lady  knows  what  she  is  about,"  was  Miss 
Dallison's  response. 

"  I  hope  she  does,"  was  Mr.  Stackhouse's  re- 
joinder, as  he  took  his  hat,  and,  without  any  cere- 
monious words  of  adieu,  proceeded  down  town. 

Wherever  he  went  or  whatever  "  surcease  from 
care "  he  may  have  sought  in  any  quarter,  one 
thing  is  certain — he  did  not  make  immediate  claim 
upon  the  attention  of  Detective  Lamm. 

But  shortly  after  his  departure,  that  busy  gentle- 
man had  the  satisfaction  of  rejoining  the  triumphant 
Miss  Dallison  and  of  reading  the  following  enigma- 
tical epistle  : 

"  MARIE  : — Your  part  in  the  conspiracy  to  bring  about  my 
ruin,  which  was  carried  out  on  the  I7th  of  this  present  June, 
is  perfectly  well  known  to  me.  I  make  no  foolish  complaints. 
You  have  accomplished  your  revenge.  My  name  is  clouded 
with  suspicion.  My  hopes  of  fortune  are  destroyed.  Let  me 
have  frank,  fair  treatment  now,  such  as  a  victor  can  well  afford 


1 82  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

to  give  a  vanquished  man  :  and  whatever  I  can  save  from  the 
wreck  of  North  &  Stackhouse  shall  be  yours.  I  have  not 
forgotten  the  old  days  at  Lake  Pontchartrain.  I  am  aware 
that  I  am  not  entitled  to  ask  for  mercy.  But  by  the  same 
means  that  you  have  done  the  mischief  you  can  undo  it.  Will 
you  not  ?  The  reward  will  be  enough  to  satisfy  your  con- 
science. I  cannot  speak  more  definitely  upon  paper.  I  must 
see  you  in  person,  and  have  a  talk  with  you  about  this.  Even 
if  you  refuse  meet  me  face  to  face,  You  do  not  know  how 
much  I  may  say  to  you. 

"T.  S." 

Detective  Lamm  was  still  puzzling  in  a  highly- 
excited  frame  of  mind  over  this  letter,  when  Tues- 
day afternoon  came. 

"  I  wish  I  had  Thomas  here  to  talk  it  over,"  was 
his  unspoken  thought  as  he  gave  his  office  chair  a 
twirl.  "  Where  is  the  man  all  this  while? "  he  said 
aloud. 

Hardly  were  the  words  out  of  his  mouth  when  a 
well-known  knock  was  heard.  Lamm's  face  bright- 
ened, and  brightened  still  more  when  he  admitted 
to  his  little  room  of  counsel  a  moment  later  Mr. 
Kingman  F.  Thomas. 

"  Why,  Kingman,  where  have  you  kept  yourself 
all  this  while  ?  Sit  down,  sit  down,  and  give  an  ac- 
count of  yourself." 

Mr.  Thomas  parried  this  impetuous  salutation 
and  query  with  a  question  of  his  own. 

"An  account  of  myself  ? "  he  said,  laughing. 
"  Perhaps  you  think  my  time's  my  own.  Did  you 
never  hear  of  such  a  thing  as  a  journalist  being 
sent  out  of  town  to  do  a  given  bit  of  work  for  his 
paper,  John  Lamm  ? " 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      183 

The  detective  nodded  his  head  and  looked  at 
Thomas  in  a  quizzical  sort  of  a  way. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Kingman.  But  they  don't  generally 
take  a  man  off  a  murder  mystery  case  like  this  and 
send  him  out  of  town  on  some  chance  affair  ;  at 
least  they  didn't  do  that  when  I  knew  the  office 
routine.  Got  a  new  editor  down  at  your  place  ? " 

"  Nonsense,  Lamm,"  answered  Thomas.  '%  Emer- 
gencies may  arise  at  any  moment  in  a  newspaper 
office.  You  know  that  well  enough.  1  was  pulled 
off  the  North  case  for  a  little  while  ;  but  they  put 
me  back  again  with  lightning-like  celerity,  as  you 
see,  for  here  I  am.  Now,  what  have  you  got  to 
tell  me  ?  " 

"  First  of  all,  Kingman,"  the  detective  said, 
tipped  comfortably  back  in  his  chair,  "  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  I'm  a  little  surprised,  to  put  it  mildly,  that 
you  should  have  let  that  young  North  girl  give  you 
the  slip  that  night.  How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  The  fortune  of  war,"  rejoined  Thomas,  for  the 
moment  quite  interested  in  the  row  of  law  books  on 
the  shelf  above  Mr.  Lamm's  desk.  "  The  best  of 
us  get  beaten  sometimes — even  you.  Of  course, 
you  have  forgotten — " 

"I've  forgotten  nothing,  Kingman,"  said  Mr. 
Lamm.  "  Let  it  pass.  The  matter  can't  be  helped. 
Of  course  I  knew  it  wasn't  your  fault.  And  now 
to  another  subject." 

The  detective  consulted  his  little  memorandum 
book,  and  took  from  its  leaves  Stackhouse's  letter. 

"  Never  mind  to  whom  it  is   written,"  he  said. 


1 84  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  taken  in  connection  with 
what  we  know  of  this  man  Stackhouse  ?  " 

Thomas  read  the  letter  twice  before  answering. 

"  Looks  as  though  there  might  be  some  conspiracy. 
I  should  like  to  know  who  this  Marie  really  is." 

Mr.  Lamm  silently  acquiesced  in  this  wish,  but 
he  said  nothing  on  that  point. 

"  We  have  talked  over  our  friend  Stackhouse 
considerably,  Kingman,  first  and  last,"  he  observed, 
"  and  I  fancied  we  agreed  pretty  well  for  a  while.'' 

"  For  a  while  ?  "  queried  Kingman.  "  What  do 
you  mean  ? " 

"  People  change  their  minds  sometimes,  and  I 
have  modified  my  first  opinions  regarding  the  man," 
continued  Mr.  Lamm,  following  the  pattern  of  the 
wall  paper  opposite  his  desk  with  his  eye.  "  A  de- 
cidedly abler  man  is  this  Stackhouse  than  a  good 
many  people  give  him  the  credit  of  being — abler 
than  I  thought  at  first.  He  is  a  smart  man — a 
4  slick  '  man,  as  they  say  up  in  New  Hampshire. 
The  way  in  which  he  has  managed  to  keep  North 
&  Stackhouse  out  of  bankruptcy  all  this  while  shows 
that  he  has  plenty  of  nerve  and  a  good  deal  of  skill." 

"  Not  much  use  without  money,"  was  Mr. 
Thomas's  sententious  comment.  "  You  know  what 
people  say  about  it.  Firm  would  have  gone  to 
smash  long  ago  if  it  hadn't  been  bolstered  up.  And 
all  the  financial  fellows  that  I  have  talked  with  give 
the  credit  for  keeping  the  firm  out  of  deep  water 
for  three  months  past  to  one  man — Richard  Fet- 
ridge  ! " 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      185 

"  He's  a  curious  sort  of  character,  that  Fetridge," 
said  the  detective  contemplatively.  My  opinion  is 
that  without  his  money  he  would  amount  to  but 
precious  little." 

"You  wouldn't  put  him  down  as  the  Napoleon  of 
State  Street,  then  ?  "  hinted  Thomas. 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Lamm.  "  Why,  the  man 
hasn't  half  the  ability  of  Thornton  Stackhouse. 
There  is  a  queer  streak  in  the  fellow,  and  it  shows 
itself  at  every  turn.  Pig-headed  enough,  but  lacks 
balance.  Really  weak-minded,  for  all  his  obstinacy 
in  small  things.  That's  my  judgment  of  the  man. 
What  do  you  say  about  him  ?  " 

Mr.  Thomas  thought  a  moment. 

"  Don't  know  him  as  you  do,  Lamm,  but  it  seems 
to  me  he  must  have  some  good  qualities,  some  little 
ability,  to  have  got  on  such  a  friendly  footing  with 
the  Norths." 

"  Do  you  mean  the  old  man,  or  the  woman  ?  " 

"Well,  the  family  generally." 

"  Oh,  pshaw  !  Paul  North  only  wanted  to  '  work' 
him  for  his  money,  and  I  rather  think  you  know 
that  the  girls  may  have  been  in  with  the  old  gentle- 
man in  his  laudable  endeavor." 

"  Perhaps  you've  seen  and  heard  more  about  the 
Norths  than  I,"  he  said  a  little  uncomfortably.  "  But 
it  didn't  seem  to  me — " 

"  Oh,  the  girls  ?  Well,  they  may  not  have  had 
much  to  do  but  to  smile  sweetly  on  Fetridge  and 
keep  him  in  the  firm's  traces,"  continued  the  de- 
tective, with  a  covert  glance  at  his  ally's  face  ; 


1 86  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  and,  of  course,  this  Fetridge  was  no  fool  to  be 
caught  by  the  bare  hook.  He  isn't  possessed  of 
any  great  amount  of  brains,  but  his  experience  in 
the  business  world  makes  up  for  some  of  his  natural 
shortcomings.  However,  perhaps  this  failure  will 
bring  out  the  facts  about  Stackhouse.  I  hope  so. 
It's  a  bad  break,  and  a  great  many  people  have 
gone  down  with  North  &  Stackhouse.  But  I 
think  Thornton  Stackhouse  himself  has  saved  noth- 
ing out  of  the  crash." 

"  The  Norths  have  gone  under,  of  course  ?" 

"  Yes.  Not  a  dollar,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  will  be 
left  to  them.  There's  no  telling,  though,  what  those 
girls  may  have  managed  to  pick  up  and  hide  all  this 
while.  That  young  creature,  now,  who  went  off — " 

"  You  mean — Miss  Stella  ?  "  There  was  a  danger- 
ous look  in  Thomas's  eyes. 

"  Certainly.  She's  a  hardened  little  baggage,  I'll 
be  bound.  Why,  man,  she  was  shrewd  enough  to 
throw  you  off  the  scent,  and  a  girl  of  eighteen  who 
can  trick  Kingman  F.  Thomas  when  he's  on  the 
watch  is  an  abnormally  clever  sort  of  creature." 

Mr.  Thomas  abruptly  arose  and  looked  out  of 
the  little  window. 

"  How  do  you  imagine  she  got  away  from  you, 
Kingman  ?  "  pursued  Mr.  Lamm. 

"  A  piece  of  bad  luck,"  the  reporter  returned 
curtly.  "  We  all  have  those  sort  of  happenings 
sometimes.  I  suppose  the  girl  watched  her  chance 
and  stole  away.  Nothing  very  calculating  about 
that,  it  seems  to  me.  It  was  her  good  fortune  " 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      187 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  assented  Mr.  Lamm.  "  It's  a 
sore  spot  with  you,  old  fellow,  eh  ?  Well,  never 
mind.  We  know  now,  of  course,  who  the  guilty 
party  is  in  this  affair.  Never  mind  Fetridge  now. 
Flight  is  confession,  and  you  can  take  ample  re- 
venge by  helping  to  bring  that  large-eyed  maiden 
who  gave  you  the  slip  to  justice.  You  see  the 
point,  Kingman  ?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Mr.  Thomas,  turning  upon 
the  ingenious  Mr.  Lamm  in  great  heat.  "  What 
morbid  state  of  mind  has  come  over  you  ?  What's 
the  matter  with  you  that  you  go  on  maundering 
like  this?" 

"  Maundering  ?  "  Mr.  Lamm's  face  wore  a  look 
of  cleverly  assumed  astonishment. 

"  Yes.  Maundering  is  what  I  said,  and  I  meant 
it,  too.  Come  !  You  don't  mean  to  look  me  in 
the  face  and  tell  me  that  you  think  that  a  timid, 
shrinking  girl  like  Stella  North  would  ever  have  the 
courage  to  murder  her  father,  even  if  she  had  the 
heart  to  do  it  ? " 

"  But  she  ran  away — " 

There  was  a  tell-tale  twitching  at  the  corners  of 
the  detective's  mouth  despite  his  efforts  to  the 
contrary,  observing  which  Mr.  Thomas  gave  a  little 
start,  pulled  up  his  shirt  collar,  relaxed  his  features, 
laughed,  though  rather  constrainedly,  and  clapped 
Mr.  Lamm  on  the  shoulder. 

"  Have  done  with  your  '  kidding,'  old  man,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  not  one  of  the  Central  Office  crowd." 

Mr.  Lamm  coughed  behind  his  hand. 


1 88  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  You  can't  make  me  believe  any  of  your  foolish- 
ness," continued  the  reporter.  "  Now  talk  straight 
for  a  moment.  Stackhouse  or  Fetridge — whom 
shall  I  watch,  now  ?  " 

"  No  use  to  try  to  cheat  you,  Kingman,"  retorted 
Mr.  Lamm,  with  an  expansive  smile.  "  Well,  in 
the  present  uncertain  state  of  affairs,  both  must  be 
watched.  We  ought  to  be  here,  both  of  us,  to  look 
after  matters  ;  but  I  am  suddenly  called  away  and 
this  is  why  I  am  so  glad  you  came  in." 

"  Called  away  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  old  Jobson,  the  clerk  at  North  &  Stack- 
house,  has  just  told  me  in  his  innocent  way  all  about 
a  certain  suspicious  character  that  occasionally 
came  to  see  North,  and  lives  in  New  York.  I  am 
going  to  look  the  man  up  there,  and  for  a  day  or 
two  you  must  watch  the  Boston  end  for  both  of  us." 

Mr.  Lamm,  after  advising  Thomas  to  still  watch 
Swampscott,  and  promising  to  bring  in  a  man  or  two 
to  help  cover  the  city  points,  bade  the  reporter  a 
friendly  "  good-by,"  and  went  from  his  office  directly 
toward  the  Albany  station. 

But  the  protuberance  on  his  valise,  which  marked 
the  sojourning  place  of  the  very  rigid  hair  brush 
which  was  Mr.  North's  constant  traveling  compan- 
ion, soon  pointed  north  instead  of  south.  It  was 
Mr.  Thomas  whom  the  detective  followed.  Seeing 
him  enter  the  office  of  his  newspaper,  Mr.  Lamm 
turned  back,  deposited  his  valise  in  his  office,  and 
betook  himself  to  Court  Square. 

"  Nowak,  how  are  you  ?  " 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      189 

Thus  hailed  the  detective  a  tall,  well-built,  well- 
dressed  young  man  who  was  crossing  the  pave- 
ment at  a  brisk  pace. 

"  Hallo,  Lamm,  how  goes  everything?"  the  re- 
porter said. 

"  Quietly,  quietly.  How  are  the  boys  in  the 
Globe  office  ?  I  hardly  ever  see  them  nowadays, 
not  even  Kingman,  whom  I  used  to  run  across  so 
often." 

"  Kingman  ?  "  said  Mr.  Nowak.  "  Oh,  he's  busy 
on  the  North  mystery.  Doesn't  do  anything  else. 
Has  his  own  time,  and  flits  in  and  out  of  the  office 
at  all  sorts  of  odd  hours.  Sometimes  he's  in  a 
dozen  times  a  day.  And  then,  again,  the  editor 
may  not  see  him  for  twenty-four  hours  or  more. 
But  Kingman  is  a  privileged  character,  you  know. 
He  never  wastes  his  time  when  he  is  on  a  job." 

Mr.  Lamm  nodded  his  head  emphatically. 
"  You're  right,  Nowak.  The  word  shirk  is  not  in 
Kingman  F.  Thomas's  vocabulary.  You  are  quite 
positive  that  he  has  not  had  any  other  work  but  the 
North  case  ?  " 

"  Oh,  sure.  They  wouldn't  take  him  off  of  it 
under  any  circumstances,  now,  when  the  facts  are 
liable  to  come  out  any  hour." 

"  I  hope  he  isn't  wasting  his  time  and  energy. 
It's  a  queer  case,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Deuced  queer." 

With  a  friendly  hand-grasp  the  two  parted.  Mr. 
Lamm  proceeding  to  a  drug  store  close  at  hand, 
consulted  the  chained  directory,  and  found  in  a 


19°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

minute  a  certain  address  desired.  Boarding  a  car, 
he  journeyed  southward. 

Where  the  streets  began  to  show  bits  of  garden 
in  front  of  the  houses,  and  every  brick  wall  was 
not  a  party  wall,  Mr.  Lamm  alighted,  and  walked 
up  a  pleasant-looking  avenue. 

A  new  apartment  house,  not  far  from  the  corner, 
appeared  to  have  a  particular  interest  for  John 
Lamm.  In  its  neighborhood,  indeed,  he  passed 
the  better  part  of  an  hour.  Without  apparent 
effort,  Mr.  Lamm  entered  into  an  easy  conversation 
with  several  people  there  and  thereabouts,  and,  as 
a  result  thereof,  there  was  a  sudden  transfer  of 
especial  interest  from  the  family  hotel  to  the  build- 
ing next  door. 

Mr.  Melon's  modest  dwelling  was  by  no  means 
equal  in  height  to  its  neighbor.  But  its  graveled 
roof,  nevertheless,  offered  certain  facilities  that  the 
detective  greatly  desired.  A  brief  colloquy  was  all 
that  proved  necessary  to  gain  the  desired  permis- 
sion. 

Once  upon  the  roof,  Mr.  Lamm  placed  himself 
behind  a  sheltering  chimney,  and'cautiously  peered 
into  the  windows  of  the  neighboring  building  that 
overlooked  the  place. 

All  the  curtains  were  up,  and  the  light,  stream- 
ing cheerfully  into  what  was  evidently  a  sitting 
room,  brought  into  relief  the  face  of  a  motherly- 
looking  old  lady,  busied  with  her  knitting. 

Presently  she  looked  up  ;  and  soon  the  sight  of 
another  face  rewarded  John  Lamm's  watch.  It 


MR.  LAMM  COUGHS  BEHIND  HIS  HAND.      19* 

was  the  face  of  a  short,  rather  thick-set  young  man, 
whose  dark-brown,  kindly  eyes  had  looked  into  his 
own  not  many  hours  before. 

The  detective  noted  them  carefully  as  the)"  stood 
talking  together  earnestly.  He  saw  them  turn 
quickly,  and  as  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun  shone 
through  the  glass,  another  form  came  into  full  view. 

It  was  a  woman's  figure. 

John  Lamm  looked  with  all  his  eyes.  There 
was  no  mistake  ;  no  room  for  error.  It  was  as 
he  thought  and  hoped,  and  a  smile  of  absolute 
satisfaction  played  about  his  lips  unconsciously. 

Suddenly  he  drew  back.  The  thick-set  young 
man  in  the  room  opposite  was  just  turning  round. 
Before  he  could  peer  out  of  the  window,  in  his  turn, 
the  form  was  out  of  view.  When  the  sidelong 
glance  was  next  directed  outwards  the  blinds  were 
drawn  over  the  tell-tale  window.  But  the  precau- 
tion came  too  late.  The  next  moment  Lamm  found 
his  way  down  the  stairs,  thanked  Mr.  Molon  be- 
hind the  counter  kindly  for  his  courtesy,  walked  up 
the  street,  and  took  a  car  citywards. 

"  Ah,  my  black-haired  friend,"  he  thought,  ex- 
ultingly,  "  a  very  clever  scheme  of  yours.  But 
walls  have  eyes  for  John  Lamm  once  in  a  while, 
Kingman,  and  though  you've  kept  your  secret  well 
from  the  crowd,  you  couldn't  conceal  it  from  your 
partner.  What  would  Applebee  say,  what  would 
Stackhouse  say,  for  that  matter,  if  they  knew  that 
Kingman  F.  Thomas  had  a  pretty  guest,  none  other 
than  the  strangely  missing  Stella  North  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    THING    HAS   A   DARK   LOOK. 

"/"^OME   in,  Kingman.     You  are  prompt.     I'm 

\s  obliged  to  you." 

Wednesday  morning,  and  Detective  Lamm  at 
the  threshold  of  his  office  was  welcoming  his  friend 
the  reporter. 

"  Yes,"  said  Thomas,  unaware  of  the  peculiar 
expression  with  which  his  associate  regarded  him. 
"  Your  note,  left  at  the  office,  seemed  to  be  urgent." 

"  You  are  right.     It  was  urgent.     Sit  down." 

John  Lamm  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in 
his  pocket.  And  standing  with  his  back  against  it, 
said,  seriously  : 

"  Thomas,  I  have  always  considered  you  as  an 
excellent  detective.  I  have  changed  my  mind." 

"  Well,  what  now  ? "  asked  Thomas  uneasily, 
glancing  keenly  at  his  friend,  and  thereafter  avoid- 
ing his  gaze. 

"  This,"  said  Lamm,  measuring  his  words  ;  "  the 
man  who  allows  himself  to  be  side-tracked  in  an 
important  case  by  a  pretty  face  and  a  pair  of 
blue  eyes  has  a  cardinal  weakness  that  sooner  or 
later  is  sure  to  tell  against  him  in  business." 

Thomas  started,  flushed,  but  controlled  himself. 
192 


THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.  193 

"  Did  you  go  clear  to  New  York  to  find  that 
out  ? " 

"  I  have  not  been  to  New  York,"  said  Lamm 
quietly.  "  I  have  been  here  in  Boston  hard  at 
work  upon  the  latest  and  most  curious  feature  of 
the  North  case." 

"  Come,"  said  Thomas  desperately,  "  say  what 
you  mean.  Don't  talk  in  riddles." 

"  I  mean  that  I  know  all  about  it,  Thomas.  I 
know  that  Kingman  F.  Thomas,  who  has  done  in 
his  day  as  excellent  detective  work  as  anybody  in 
the  State,  has  at  last  fallen  into  the  snare  of  the 
siren,  and  forgotten  his  duty.  In  other  words, 
he  is  in  love  with  one  of  the  principals.  Instead 
of  arresting  her  he  guards  her.  While  the  police 
are  searching  everywhere  for  her,  he  has  her 
secretly  hidden  in  his  own  house  right  under  their 
very  noses,  and  comes  to  his  best  friend  with  a 
coolness  that  might  (if  he  were  a  little  less  wary) 
have  ruined  his  work  on  the  case." 

"  John,  you  presume  on  your  friendship,"  said 
Thomas  hotly.  He  had  been  nervously  fingering 
his  wAtch  charm,  and  alternating  between  white 
and  red,  throughout  Lamm's  quiet  speech,  but  he 
now  started  up  and  faced  the  detective  squarely- 
"  You  have  no  right  to  assume  that  there  is  any 
sentiment  in  the  matter.  You  go  too  far  when  you 
charge  me  with  letting  my  personal  feelings  run 
away  with  my  sense  of  duty.  You  don't  know  what 
my  object  was — is." 

"  Ah,  but  pardon  me,  Kingman  ;  I  assume  that  I 


194  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

do.  If  it  had  been  in  the  ordinary  course  of  your 
professional  business,  you  would  have  come  to  me 
with  it  for  advice  or  assistance,  just  as  you  have 
always  done  when  we  have  associated  ourselves 
on  a  case  before.  There  is  only  one  reason  why 
you  didn't  come  :  you  were  more  than  afraid  that  I 
would  never  approve  of  so  rash  a  proceeding  on 
your  part,  and  you  were  resolved  upon  taking  the 
step  at  all  hazards.  In  other  words,  Kingman,  you 
were  a  little  ashamed." 

Thomas  had  regained  control  of  himself.  He 
drew  himself  up. 

"  See  here,  John  Lamm,  we  will  leave  my  motives 
out  of  the  question,  if  you  please.  I  have  protected 
the  girl.  I  propose  to  continue  to  do  so.  She  was 
in  a  hard  place — a  harder  one  than  you  know  any- 
thing about.  I  should  have  been  less  than  a  man 
if  I  had  neglected  to  do  what  I  did.  To  have 
given  her  up  under  the  circumstances  would  have 
been  the  height  of  cruelty.  You  wouldn't  have 
done  it  yourself.  Every  bit  of  circumstantial 
evidence  was  overwhelmingly  against  her.  I  de- 
termined to  conceal  her  till  I  could  discover  at 
least  proofs  of  her  innocence  sufficient  to  prevent 
her  from  the  ignominy  of  an  arrest.  Since  you 
have  discovered  the  fact  there  is  no  help  for  it. 
You  must  aid  me  to  keep  the  secret." 

"Only  upon  one  condition,  Kingman.  I  must 
know  all  the  facts." 

"And,  if  I  tell  you  everything,  will  you  give  me 
your  word  of  honor  not  to  use  it  against  her  or 


THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.  195 

hers  ?  "  asked  Thomas,  with  peculiar  emphasis  on 
the  second  pronoun. 

"But  isn't  that  rather  broad?"  Lamm  hesitated. 

Thomas  compressed  his  lips  tightly. 

"This  girl  has  confessed  everything  to  ine, 
Lamm  ;  and  in  return  I  have  given  her  my  word  to 
do  everything  in  my  power  to  protect  her  family 
from  disgrace.  There's  no  way  out  of  it.  You 
must  promise  me." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  demanded  Lamm  sternly. 
"  Do  you  mean  if  I  find  that  the  murderer  of  Paul 
North  is  in  her  family  I  am  to  keep  it  to  myself  ?  " 

"  Decidedly  not,"  said  Thomas.  "But  you  must 
have  proof,  not  appearances." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Lamm.  "  I  agree  to  that. 
Hang  the  appearances  in  a  case.  They  are  seldom 
right.  I  use  appearances  only  to  enable  me  to  get 
at  the  facts.  But  once  I  get  at  the  facts,  Thomas, 
understand  me,  it  will  make  no  difference  whose 
family  it  is  in." 

"Very  well,"  said  Thomas,  "we  understand  each 
other.  Give  me  your  hand  on  it." 

The  two  men  shook  hands  over  the  compact, 
and  sat  down  close  together  beside  the  detective's 
desk. 

"In  the  first  place,"  began  Thomas,  "it  was 
Stella  North  who  threw  the  pistol  into  the  water  at 
Swampscott  on  Sunday  night  and  then  fled  from 
her  home." 

"  I  had  guessed  as  much  when  I  learned  that 
North's  shooter  had  been  found." 


I96  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  At  that  time  I  hadn't  the  faintest  idea  who  the 
fugitive  was,  and  when  I  recognized  her  on  the 
Connecticut  roadside  I  was  nearly  as  much  aston- 
ished as  she  was  frightened.  The  first  thing  I 
thought  was  that  she  must  be  guilty.  All  her 
actions — the  headlong,  precipitate  flight ;  her  terror 
at  my  appearance — all  seemed  to  wear  the  look  of 
criminality.  She  had  fainted  dead  away,  but  she 
soon  began  to  come  to  herself  again.  Thereupon 
I  tied  my  horse  to  a  tree,  and  drew  her  into  the 
woods,  out  of  sight  of  passers.  She  was  so  weak 
and  emotional  I  believed  her  ripe  for  a  confession. 
Lamm,  I  fully  expected  at  that  moment  to  be 
rewarded  for  my  efforts  by  a  tremendous  discovery. 
But  I  tell  you,  as  I  looked  at  the  poor  thing — 
hardly  a  woman  yet — lying  there  on  the  leaves, 
pale,  speechless,  frightened  nearly  out  of  her  senses, 
I  never  felt  so  sorry  for  anybody  in  my  life." 

"  I  know  the  feeling,"  said  Lamm.  "I've  had  it 
myself.  But  go  on." 

"  Well,  when  she  came  to,  I  began  to  talk  to  her. 
Of  course  there  was  a  scene.  She  broke  down 
completely,  and  at  her  first  words  I  understood 
what  I  ought  to  have  had  sense  enough  to  have 
known  from  the  first — that  her  terror  was  not  on 
her  own  account.  '  Oh,  don't  let  them  arrest  her ! ' 
she  kept  saying.  '  Don't,  I  beg  of  you  !  She's 
crazy  !  She  must  be  !  She  never  could  have  done 
it  in  her  senses  ! ' ' 

"  Oh,  ho  !  "  exclaimed  the  detective.  "  Sister 
Marion,  eh  ? " 


THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.  1 97 

"  '  Come/  I  said,  '  tell  me  the  whole  story  ;  it's 
the  quickest  way  out  of  it.  And  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor  I'll  do  what  I  can  to  help  you.'  Bui 
it  was  a  long  time  before  I  was  able  to  bring  her  to 
the  point  of  trusting  me.  I  don't  know  how  it  was 
exactly,  but  she  gradually — " 

"  Pshaw  !  "  said  Lamm.  "  Don't  embarrass  your- 
self. Skip  it.  I  know  what  happened  as  well  as  you 
do.  She  was  in  deep  distress.  You  were  in  earnest. 
She  trusted  you.  Good.  What  was  her  story  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  tell  me  the  whole  story  at  that  time," 
said  Thomas.  "I  stopped  her  when  I  knew  the 
essential  facts,  for  I  realized  her  danger  and  in- 
cidentally my  own.  I  impressed  upon  her  the 
necessity  of  obeying  me  implicitly.  I  told  her 
there  was  but  one  way  to  save  either  herself  or  her 
sister,  or  both  of  them,  from  the  ignominy  of  imme- 
diate arrest,  and  all  the  attendant  scandal.  Fright- 
ened to  death  almost,  and  shaking  like  a  leaf,  she 
acquiesced.  I  stowed  her  as  comfortably  as  I 
could  in  the  bottom  of  the  carriage,  and  covered 
her  with  a  rug.  Overcome  with  exhaustion,  she,  I 
believe,  actually  slept  all  the  way  to  Vernon. 
Outside  the  town  I  awoke  her,  made  her  get  out, 
and  told  her  to  follow  me  at  a  distance,  and  to 
board  the  train  that  I  took,  but  by  no  means  to 
speak  to  me.  She  was  veiled,  and  had  enough 
money  to  purchase  her  ticket." 

"  Capital  !  You  are  a  shrewd  one,  Kingman. 
These  precautions  would  never  had  occurred  to 
another  man." 


I98  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"Ah!  I  knew,  you  see,  that  the  whole  police 
force  must  be  on  her  track  by  this  time.  As  soon 
as  she  was  missed  from  Svvampscott,  I  knew  they 
would  be  in  full  chase,  and  she,  in  her  innocence, 
had  left  a  trail  as  plain  as  the  milky  way." 

"Of  course,"  said  Detective  Lamm,  significantly. 

"  And  so,"  Thomas  continued,  "  I  laid  my  plans 
accordingly.  We  rode  to  Boston  separately,  and 
she  followed  me  on  foot  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street  to  my  house.  She  was  whiter  than  death 
when  she  came  in  ;  but  if  you  know  my  mother 
yon  can  imagine  the  reception  she  got.  Five  min- 
utes' explanation  to  my  mother  was  sufficient.  She 
opened  her  arms  to  the  fugitive,  and  Stella  North 
has  been  under  her  charge  ever  since." 

"  Ah  !  and  you,  of  course,  got  the  whole  story 
from  the  girl  ?  " 

"  That  night.  There  is  no  question  about  her 
frankness  or  her  honesty.  If  you  could  talk  with 
with  her  ten  minutes  you  would  be  assured  of  that." 

"  Undoubtedly.  And  now  for  the  facts.  What 
are  they  ?  " 

"  Well,  Lamm,"  said  Thomas,  "  there  are  two  sets 
of  facts — the  immediate  and  the  remote.  Whether 
the  remote  have  any  relation  to  the  immediate  I 
cannot  tell.  Nevertheless,  you  shall  hear  them 
first.  To  go  back  to  Richard  Fetridge — " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lamm.  "  Everything  in  the 
case  seems  to  have  a  peculiar  trick  of  going  back 
to  him." 

"  Still,  I  am  unable  to  say  that  he  has  any  con- 


THE   THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.  199 

nection  with  this  murder,  Lamm.  It's  a  mystery, 
old  man,  as  you  will  soon  see.  Stella  merely  cor- 
roborated the  facts  that  I  have  told  you  already 
about  Fetridge's  connection  with  the  family.  It 
was  just  as  I  said  :  he  was  in  love  with  Marion, 
but  how  far  they  went,  whether  they  were  actually 
engaged  or  not,  nobody  knows  ;  not  even  Stella, 
for  the  fact  comes  out  that  Marion  is  a  very  peculiar 
woman." 

"  Peculiar  ?  Do  you  mean  eccentric  ?  " 
"  Well,  eccentric,  perhaps,"  said  Thomas,  doubt- 
fully. "  What  I  mean  is  that  she  is  exceedingly 
self-willed  and  self-reliant ;  that  she  is  naturally 
secretive,  dislikes  to  make  confidants,  repels  inter- 
course on  topics  near  to  her,  dislikes  to  be  sympa- 
thized with,  and  is  extremely  sensitive  about  little 
things  that  ordinary  people  would  pass  unobserved. 
Exaggerate  all  these  qualities  to  an  unusual  degree 
and  you  have  the  traits  that  make  Marion  Stack- 
house  peculiar.  If  you  call  such  a  character  eccen- 
tric, she's  eccentric.  If  you  mean,  however,  the 
eccentricity  that  is  allied  to  monomania  or  insanity, 
I  fail  to  find  that  she  has  ever  exhibited  any  traces 
of  it.  I  questioned  Stella  very  particularly  on  this 
point — as  to  whether  her  sister  was  in  the  habit  of 
taking  queer  freaks.  She  says  it  might  seem  so  to 
anybody  who  was  not  familiar  with  her  peculiar 
temperament,  but  she  never  knew  her  to  do  any- 
t  ling  without  the  possibility  of  a  reason  therefor." 
"  Just  my  idea  cf  her  exactly,"  said  Lamm. 
"  Anybody  who  has  ever  looked  into  the  restless  eye 


200  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

of  a  maniac  knows  what  it  is.  I  have  talked  with 
Marion  Stackhouse  face  to  face.  She  is  no  more 
insane  than  I  am." 

"  I  say  this,"  continued  Thomas,  "  to  explain 
why  it  was  that  nobody  knew  whether  Marion  was 
really  engaged  to  Fetridge.  On  account  of  the 
opposition  of  Mr.  North,  it  would  have  been  a 
secret,  anyway,  to  some  extent,  but  Stella  never 
knew.  She  only  knows  that  they  were  together  a 
great  deal,  till  one  night  they  presumably  quar- 
reled, for  his  visits  ceased  abruptly.  And  the  next 
thing  Stella  knew,  the  engagement  to  Stackhouse 
was  announced." 

"  Wasn't  this  a  marriage  from  pique,  then,  such 
as  we  occasionally  hear  of  ? " 

"  So  I  fancy,  Lamm.  Stella  will  not  express  her 
opinion  to  that  effect,  but  I  can  see  that  she  thinks 
so.  Well,  now,  as  to  Fetridge  coming  back  into 
the  family  again  since  his  return  from  Australia,  it 
was  just  as  we  surmised,  ostensibly  to  pay  Stella 
some  attentions ;  but  the  girl  declares  that  he  never 
spoke  of  love  to  her,  though  he  had  plenty  of 
opportunity." 

"Which  indicates,"  said  Lamm  quietly,  "that  Fet- 
ridge still  came  to  see  Marion,  despite  her  marriage 
to  Stackhouse." 

"  So  it  would  seem  ;  and  that  she  regretted  her 
hasty  step  in  marrying  too  soon.  Well,  but  this  is 
only  speculation.  To  go  on  with  facts  :  Fetridge's 
attentions  to  Stella  were  thoughtlessly  received — 
the  girl  insists  she  has  no  other  feeling  for  him 


THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.          20 1 

than  that  of  a  pleasant  acquaintance — but  after  his 
departure  on  his  recent  business  trip,  the  purpose 
of  which  we  can't  determine,  it  came  to  her  ears 
that  there  was  a  great  deal  of  gossip  about  their 
association.  She  determined  to  be  more  careful  in 
the  future.  The  day  before  the  murder,  Fetridge 
reappeared  at  the  house.  It  would  seem  that  the 
instant  he  got  home  he  came  to  the  North  house- 
hold. He  began  to  lay  out  plans  at  once  to  go 
hither  and  yon  with  the  girl.  But  the  poor  thing's 
suspicions  were  aroused  by  her  long  month  of  reflec- 
tion. She  determined  not  to  be  made  a  catspaw  of 
for  any  purpose,  and  at  the  first  opportunity — hav- 
ing summoned  up  the  necessary  courage  —  she 
broached  the  tabooed  subject  to  her  sister." 

"  What  time  of  day  was  this  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  have  been  about  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon.  Marion  was  not  feeling  very  well.  She 
was  lying  down,  and  Stella  was  sitting  beside  her 
with  a  fan.  Marion  introduced  Fetridge's  name 
herself,  making  some  inquiries  about  his  visit  of  the 
previous  evening.  Then  Stella  made  so  bold  as  to 
ask  her  advice,  and  finally  told  what  her  suspicions 
were." 

"  But  you  don't  mean — " 

"  Simply  that  Fetridge  pretended  to  pay  atten- 
tions to  her  (Stella)  for  the  sake  of  appearances, 
and  that  his  real  object  was  to  be  near  Marion." 

"  Whew  !  Knowing  the  woman,  I  can  imagine 
the  result." 

"  Easily.     But  Stella  was  innocent  enough.    She 


202  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

merely  intended  to  give  her  sister  a  well-meant 
warning.  Marion  received  it  as  an  insult.  '  It  is 
a  jealous  lie,'  she  cries  into  the  ears  of  the  aston- 
ished Stella.  '  Richard  Fetridge  never  meant  to 
marry  me  ;  never  cared  a  feather  for  me.  If  you 
had  asked  me  I  could  have  told  you  so.  But  since 
you  thought  it  better  to  play  the  spy  on  me,  why, 
I'll  prove  it  to  you."  And  with  a  great  emphasis 
on  the  word  prove,  she  dashed  out  of  the  room." 

"  This  woman  is  curious.  No  doubt  about  it. 
But  her  conscience  troubles  her,  and  she's  jealous 
of  Fetridge.  There's  no  other  explanation  of  this 
line  of  conduct." 

"  Ah,  well,"  said  Thomas  doubtfully,  "  if  Marion 
had  married  Stackhouse  purely  from  pique,  and 
had  been  carrying  on  the  hollow  mockery  for  a 
whole  year,  because  she  was  too  proud  to  betray 
what  she  suffered  to  any  living  soul,  it  seems  that 
there  might  be  enough  inflammable  material  in  her 
emotional  nature  to  get  up  a  good  blaze  at  the  first 
spark.  Don't  you  think  so?  " 

"  Quite  likely.  It's  logically  put,  anyhow.  But 
about  these  proofs  that  Fetridge  didn't  care  for  her. 
I  am  anxious  to  know  the  nature  of  them." 

"  So  am  I  ;  but  unfortunately  they  disappear  from 
my  story  with  this  reference  to  them.  Stella  natur- 
ally supposed  Marion  went  upstairs  to  get  some- 
thing. Imagine  her  surprise,  five  minutes  later,  to 
see  her  driving  off  in  a  carriage.  In  a  short  time 
the  coachman  came  back.  Mrs.  Stackhouse,  he 
said,  had  gone  to  Boston.  Stella  began  to  be  ex- 


THE  THING  HAS  A  DARK  LOOK.  203 

ceedingly  alarmed.  What  in  the  world  could  have 
occasioned  this  sudden  freak  she  could  not  imagine. 
That  her  sister  was  terribly  angry  she  saw,  and  the 
insane  idea  that  perhaps  she  intended  to  tell  Rich- 
ard Fetridge  what  had  been  said  drove  the  poor 
girl  quite  distracted.  She  followed  Marion  to  the 
city  in  the  next  train,  and  searched  everywhere  for 
her.  It  was  after  six  when  she  arrived,  and  all  the 
places  of  business  were  closed.  This  circumstance 
only  increased  the  girl's  alarm.  She  began  to  have 
what  she  calls  a  presentiment  of  evil.  There  were 
three  places  in  town  where  she  thought  her  sister 
might  be — the  houses  of  three  friends.  One  of 
them  was  a  way  out  in  Roxbury.  She  made  the 
rounds,  exciting  everywhere  wonder  and  concern  ; 
but  she  abruptly  refused  all  offers  of  escort.  It  was 
getting  later  and  later  all  the  time.  Already  it  was 
dark,  and  the  street  lights  were  burning.  Suddenly 
she  remembered  that  Marion  had  the  keys  to  the 
house  in  Marlboro  Street.  There  was  a  bare  possi- 
bility that  she  had  gone  there  in  quest  of  the  proofs 
she  had  so  mysteriously  mentioned.  Stella  set  her- 
self in  that  direction.  It  must  have  been  about 
half-past  nine  o'clock  when  she  approached  the 
place,  and  saw — what  do  you  think  ?  Marion 
Stackhouse  coming  down  the  steps  !  " 

The  imperturbable  John  Lamm  for  once  lost  his 
professional  sang  froid.  He  sprang  to  his  feet, 
and  brought  his  hand  down  with  a  crash  upon  the 
top  of  his  desk. 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  he  cried.  "  And  all  this 
time  you  have  been  concealing  this  from  me  !  " 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

CONSPIRACY  ! 

*  TT  is  significant  to  you,  then  ?  "  Thomas  asked, 

1  uneasily,  with  a  faint  smile. 

"  Oh,  certainly  not,"  returned  John  Lamm,  sar- 
castically. "  It  doesn't  mean  anything.  But  don't 
delay.  How  did  Marion  act  ?  What  did  she  have 
to  say  for  herself  ?  " 

The  detective,  instead  of  resuming  his  seat, 
began  to  walk  about  the  room  with  his  hands 
behind  him. 

"  She  hadn't  anything  to  say  for  herself,"  returned 
Thomas.  "  That's  just  the  trouble.  She  acted 
queer — queerer  than  Stella  had  ever  seen  her  act 
in  her  life." 

"  How  queer?" 

"  As  the  girl  expresses  it,  she  seemed  like  a  per- 
son walking  in  her  sleep.  She  spoke  to  Stella  but 
in  a  mechanical  way,  as  if  her  mind  were  quite 
elsewhere  all  the  time.  They  went  back  to  the 
depot  and  rode  out  to  Swampscott  together." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  Marion  expressed  no 
surprise  when  she  saw  Stella  in  the  street  ?  " 

"  Momentarily  she  seemed  aroused,  but  as  soon 
as  Stella  began  to  account  for  herself  she  relapsed 
into  her  '  frozen  '  condition  again." 
204 


CONSPIRACY!  205 

"  What  a  woman  she  is  !  " 

"  She  was  not  strong  enough  to  conceal  from  her 
sister  that  something  terrible  had  happened.  She 
was  so  dazed  and  unnatural  that  the  young  girl 
was  frantic  with  apprehension." 

"  Of  course  this  places  it  beyond  a  doubt  that 
Marion  had  either  killed  her  legal  father  or  had 
seen  him  killed." 

"  But,  my  dear  Lamm,  I  can't  entertain  the  first 
idea  for  a  minute.  What  possible  motive  could 
there  be  for  her  ? " 

"  It  is  to  be  determined  simply  by  the  fact  of 
whether  the  girl  was  alone  in  the  house  that  night." 

"  Ah,  precisely.  That  is  what  I  am  working  to 
find  out.  Well,  Lamm,  on  the  whole  journey  home, 
Marion  Stackhouse  had  but  two  sentences  to  utter 
which  seem  to  have  any  bearing  upon  the  case. 
The  first  was  when  Stella  made  some  mention  of 
Stackhouse.  '  Never  speak  to  me  of  that  man 
again,'  said  Marion  fiercely.  '  He  is  not  my  hus- 
band.' And  again,  just  before  they  got  to  the 
house,  seizing  her  sister's  wrist,  '  Stella,'  she  whis- 
pered, '  do  you  want  to  see  me  in  my  grave  ?  Then 
never  tell  a  living  soul  where  I  have  been.'  " 

"  Thunder  and  guns! "  ejaculated  Lamm.  "  That 
woman  is  the  princess  of  mysteries.  Doesn't  it 
strike  you  a  little  peculiar  that  she  should  continue 
to  assert  that  Stackhouse  is  not  her  husband  ? 
Mind  you,  she  always  puts  it  in  that  way.  I  have 
heard  her  say  it  myself.  '  He  is  not  my  husband.' 
Now  why  shouldn't  she  say,  '  I  refuse  to  live  with 


206  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

this  man  any  longer,'  not  for  ever,  '  He  is  not  my 
husband.'  Wasn't  the  marriage  public  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  it  was.  The  marriage  occurred  in 
St.  Paul's  Church,  in  the  presence  of  hundreds  of 
people." 

Lamm  came  and  placed  his  hand  softly  on  the 
reporter's  shoulder. 

"  You  don't  imagine,  Thomas,"  he  questioned 
below  his  breath,  "  that  she  has  been  secretly  mar- 
ried to  this  man  Fetridge  previous  to  his  departure 
for  Australia  ? " 

"  What  an  idea!  "  cried  Thomas,  amused.  "  You 
seem  anxious  to  give  her  a  monomania  on  the  mar- 
riage question.  If  married  already  to  Fetridge 
what  earthly  reason  could  induce  her  to  marry 
Stackhouse  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  have  got  a 
complication  there  not  likely  to  arise  in  any  well- 
regulated  family." 

"Perhaps.  But  I've  gone  far  enough  in  this 
'case  to  know  that  there  is  something  different  be- 
hind it  than  anything  I  ever  met  with  in  all  my  life 
before.  But  to  go  on.  Of  course  Stella  is  frightened 
to  death  by  Marion's  reference  to  the  grave,  and 
refrained  from  telling  anybody  where  she  had  seen 
her,  until  you  got  it  out  of  her." 

"  So  you  might  know  by  the  way  things  have 
gone  on.  She  was  scared  enough  that  night, 
you  may  be  sure,  but  the  next  day  when  the  news 
came  of  the  murder  you  can  imagine  the  effect. 
There  seems  to  have  been  a  great  scene  between 
the  sisters.  Stella  came  out  horrified  at  Marion's 


CONSPIRACY!  207 

calmness.  Marion  would  tell  her  absolutely  noth- 
ing except  such  enigmatical  sentences  as  these:  '  I 
am  not  responsible.  The  affair  is  out  of  my  hands. 
Justice  will  overtake  the  guilty.  Let  me  alone.  If 
you  betray  me  I  shall  kill  myself.  You  surely  do 
not  believe  me  capable  for  any  cause  of  killing  a 
man  who  has  taken  the  place  of  my  own  father.  I 
loved  Father  North,  as  well  as  you  did.  I  could 
not  have  harmed  him  if  I  had  hated  him' — all  of 
which  was  scarcely  calculated  to  appease  Stella's 
agony  of  apprehension.  It  was  not,  however,  till 
the  young  girl  discovered  that  her  sister  was  sleep- 
ing with  her  father's  pistol  under  her  pillow  that 
she  quite  lost  her  head,  and  believed  that  Marion 
wes  really  guilty." 

"  What !  The  weapon  that  killed  Paul  North  ?  " 
asked  the  detective,  almost  helpless  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Presumably,  since  she  must  have  brought  it 
with  her  from  the  Marlboro  Street  house  the  night 
of  the  murder,  and  one  of  its  barrels  had  been  re- 
cently discharged." 

"  What  a  nerve  that  woman  has  !  "  murmured  the 
detective.  "And  how  in  the  world  did  Stella  make 
the  discovery  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you,  Lamm.  It  was  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  on  Saturday.  The  body  of  the  murdered 
man  had  been  brought  home,  and  it  lay  in  the  hall 
below  stairs  ready  for  the  funeral.  You  can 
imagine  the  effect  on  this  young  girl,  who  is  of  an 
affectionate  disposition,  and  whose  life  up  to  this 


208  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

time  had  been  one  merry  smile.  Everything  goes 
to  show  that  she  was  the  petted  darling  of  her 
father.  Of  course,  however  fond  and  proud  any- 
body might  have  been  of  Marion,  she  was  scarcely 
the  person  to  be  made  a  pet  of.  And  with  this 
awful  cloud  of  horror  and  suspicion  weighing  upon 
her,  Stella  could  not  sleep.  The  ghost  of  the 
poisoned  King  of  Denmark  was  no  more  real  to 
Hamlet  than  was  the  spirit  of  her  father,  threaten- 
ing with  awful  finger  the  perpetrators  of  his  wo- 
ful  murder,  to  this  young  girl.  Her  fears  for  Marion 
under  the  weight  of  the  night  became  absolutely 
appalling.  Though  not  what  is  called  a  religious 
girl,  Stella  could  no  longer  trust  to  any  earthly 
aid.  She  resolved  to  go  and  pray  by  Marion's 
bedside." 

"  Natural  enough  in  this  eighteen-year-old  girl," 
commented  the  detective. 

"  It  was  the  last  effort,  you  understand,  to  obtain 
contrition  from  the  woman  who  had  been  imper- 
vious to  the  most  piteous  appeals,  the  most  solemn 
entreaties.  The  poor  girl  went  and  found  her  sis- 
ter's door  unlocked.  She  approached  the  bedside. 
It  seems  that  Marion  was  asleep,  but  her  sleep  was 
light  ;  her  dreams  perhaps  troubled,  for  she  sprang 
up  suddenly  with  an  awful  cry  and  grasped  Stella 
by  the  shoulders,  demanding  in  a  tone  that  nearly 
frightened  her  sister  out  of  her  senses,  '  What  do 
you  want  ?  What  do  you  want  ? '  She  shook  her 
so  that  Stella  made  a  frantic  effort  to  get  away. 
In  the  struggle  the  pillow  was  dragged  from  the 


CONSPIRACY!  209 

bed  and  something  beneath  it  fell  with  a  crash. 
Marion  by  this  time  awoke  to  a  realization  of  her 
surroundings.  She  sprang  out  of  bed  with  a  haste 
that  could  not  escape  Stella's  observation,  and  picked 
up  the  something  which  had  fallen.  '  What  is  it  ? ' 
demands  the  startled  Stella.  '  Nothing,'  replies 
Marion.  '  What  is  the  matter,  dear  ? '  'Go  back 
to  your  bed  and  I  will  come  to  you.'  But  no. 
Affairs  had  reached  a  climax  now  where  suspicion 
must  either  be  allayed  or  confirmed.  Marion  was 
confused  and  dismayed  by  the  sudden  transforma- 
tion in  her  sister,  and  before  she  could  regain  con- 
trol of  herself  the  hand  of  the  younger  girl  came  in 
contact  with  the  cold  steel.  '  It  is  father's  pistol,' 
whispered  Stella,  in  what  state  of  mind  you  may 
imagine.  '  Don't  deny  it,  Marion  :  you  have  been 
sleeping  with  it  under  your  pillow.'  'I  wont  deny 
it,'  said  Marion,  considerably  disturbed.  '  But  why 
will  you  insanely  insist  upon  knowing  things  which 
it  would  be  better  for  your  peace  of  mind  to  remain 
ignorant  of  ? '  " 

"  And  all  this  time  it  was  quite  dark  in  the 
room  !  "  Lamm  asked. 

"  Absolutely.  Stella's  conclusion  that  Marion 
held  her  father's  pistol  was  one  of  those  intuitive 
leaps  at  correct  conclusions  that  are  peculiar  to 
women.  And  thereupon,  almost  crazy  with  terror, 
Stella  cries  out,  'You  killed  him,  Marion  !  It  was 
your  own  hand.'  Of  course,  the  moment  the  words 
were  out  of  her  lips  she  was  penitent  for  having 
uttered  them.  '  Stella,'  says  Marion,  tremblingly, 


210  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

'  your  mad  suspicions  are  indiscreet.  Do  you  sup- 
pose I  could  sleep  in  this  house  where  the  man 
who  has  given  me  all  that  I  possess  except  life  is 
lying  dead,  if  the  guilt  of  his  death  were  at  my 
door  ?  And  are  you  the  same  girl  who  used  to 
cuddle  down  in  my  arms  in  the  old  days  and  tell  me 
that  you  loved  me  better  than  any  one  in  the  world 
except  papa  ?  Tell  me,  do  you  remember  what  I 
owe  to  this  man  who  was  more  than  a  father  to  me  ? 
Have  you  forgotten  who  it  was  that  nursed  him  in 
his  last  illness  because  he  couldn't  bear  to  have  a 
hired  nurse  profane  him  with  unsympathetic  hands? 
Can  you  recall  ever  in  my  life  a  single  expression 
of  ingratitude — '  " 

"  Bosh  !  "  interrupted  the  detective,  "  That  is 
all  very  well  for  Stella,  but  for  me  it  is  necessary  to 
be  told  how  she  became  possessed  of  that  pistol 
which  was  supposed  to  be  locked  in  Paul  North's 
desk  in  Marlboro  Street." 

"  Unfortunately,"  returned  Thomas  uneasily, 
"  she  neither  explained  nor  apologized  for  her  con- 
duct. You  know  what  women  are.  Stella's  heart, 
which  is  not  located  far  from  the  surface,  was 
touched.  She  began  to  cry  and  to  plead  for  for- 
giveness. And  then  Marion  forgave  her  ;  but  just 
as  soon  as  Stella  began  to  beg  for  an  explanation 
the  woman  said  to  her  very  coldly,  '  Go  to  your 
aunt,  dear.  What  you  want  is  somebody  to  dry 
your  tears  and  soothe  you.  I  am  no  comforter  in  a 
time  like  this,  and  I  certainly  shall  not  tell  you 
things  which  would  only  add  to  your  worry  and 


CONSPIRACY!  211 

distress.'  And  she  did  go  to  her  aunt  ;  not  to 
make  a  confidante  of  her,  but  to  beg  for  consola- 
tion and  sympathy." 

"And  this  scene  between  the  girls  ended  in 
nothing,  then  ?  " 

"  It  ended  just  as  I  have  told  you.  But  Stella, 
though  she  tried  her  best,  could  not  repress  her 
anxiety.  She  was  unable  to  bear  the  strain  of  such 
a  position.  She  constantly  saw  before  her  eyes  the 
spectacle  of  the  officers  entering  the  house  and 
dragging  Marion  off  to  prison.  In  view  of  all 
these  facts,  is  there  anything  strange  in  her  event- 
ual action  ?  The  funeral  was  scarcely  over,  and 
the  family  returned  to  the  house,  when  she  hast- 
ened to  Marion's  room,  took  the  revolver,  and  fled 
— a  headlong,  terror-stricken  flight.  Her  first  idea 
was  to  put  the  evidence  of  Marion's  guilt  out  of 
sight.  She  threw  it  into  the  water,  little  thinking 
that  I  was  watching  her.  She  says  that  she  had  no 
clear  idea  what  she  was  doing,  or  where  she  was 
going  ;  but  she  had  determined  never  to  go  back 
to  the  house.  She  felt  that  she  could  never  face 
her  sister  again.  In  the  train  to  Boston  she  be- 
thought herself  of  some  friends  in  Hartford,  where 
she  had  often  visited,  and  had  always  been  welcome. 
For  that  city  she  therefore  set  out,  only  to  find  that 
the  house  was  closed,  and  her  friends  gone  to  the 
beach  for  the  summer.  By  this  time  she  was  al- 
most crazy  from  fright,  lack  of  sleep  and  food,  for 
she  had  been  able  neither  to  eat  nor  rest  since  the 
news  of  the  murder.  Heaven  knows  what  would 


212  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

have  become  of  her  if  accident  had  not  put  me 
upon  her  trail  !  Such  is  the  story  of  Stella  North; 
and  in  view  of  it,  John  Lamm,  I  want  to  know  if 
you  blame  me  for  what  I  have  done  ?  " 

"  I  blame  you  for  only  one  thing,  Thomas,"  said 
Lamm  earnestly  ;  "  and  that  was  for  being  afraid 
to  trust  me  with  your  secret." 

"  How  did  I  know  in  what  light  you  would  view 
it  ? "  returned  the  reporter,  uneasily.  "  You  are 
always  so  matter-of-fact  and  business-like.  And, 
of  course,  I  am  perfectly  aware  that  my  present 
position  is  quite  the  reverse  of  business-like." 

"  Hang  the  position  !  "  exclaimed  John  Lamm. 
"  That's  your  affai.'  It's  the  inwardness  of  the 
North  case  that  I'm  looking  &fter,  and  your  story 
has  given  me  a  wonderful  pusa  Mv^d." 

The  detective  took  out  his  note-Jook,  disfigured 
with  his  peculiar  hieroglyphics,  and  began  at  once 
making  additions,  corrections,  and  reflections, 
quite  as  if  the  problem  before  him  had  been  one  in 
mathematics,  and  could  be  approved  by  applying 
some  of  the  advanced  rules  of  the  higher  arith- 
metic. 

"  Well,"  said  Thomas,  after  he  had  watched 
him  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  "  what  is  your 
theory  ?  " 

"  None,  Thomas,"  returned  the  detective  quickly. 
"  What  is  yours  ?  " 

"  That  Marion  is  trying  to  shield  somebody  from 
the  results  of  a  capital  offense." 

"  And  that  somebody  is  ?  " 


CONSPIRACY!  213 

"  Either  Fetridge  or  Stackhouse." 

"  With  a  leaning  toward — " 

"  Fetridge,"  said  Thomas.  "  But  I  should  like 
to  know  which  of  the  men  went  to  the  house  that 
night,  if  either — before  expressing  any  deep  con- 
viction." 

"  Ah,  quite  so.  And  that  I  propose  to  ascertain. 
But  go  on,  Kingman.  Your  conclusions  are  always 
logical,  and  they  interest  me  for  that  reason.  There 
is  no  crime  without  a  motive.  What  was  the 
motive  ? " 

"  My  dear  fellow,"  said  Thomas,  "  that  is  just 
the  mistake  made  by  criminal  theorists.  But  you 
and  I  know  that  the  majority  of  murders  are  done 
without  adequate  motives.  Few  men  in  these  days 
plot  to  kill.  They  kill  when  they  are  insane  with 
rum  or  jealousy,  or  to  defend  themselves." 

"  You  emphasize  that,  I  see  !  " 

"  Because  I  have  thought  it  right  along,"  said 
the  reporter.  "  The  fact  that  the  bullet  must  have 
been  fired  from  a  point  lower  down  than  an  erect 
man  naturally  carries  his  hand  leads  me  to  believe 
that  the  murderer  of  Paul  North  was  on  his  knees  ; 
and  it  is  logical  to  presume  from  that  that  he  had 
been  knocked  down." 

"  Clever  ! "  said  John  Lamm,  with  genuine  ad- 
miration. "  Clever,  and  just  like  you,  Thomas. 
Of  course  we  can  think  of  hundreds  of  reasons  why 
North  might  have  knocked  down  his  partner,  whose 
advice  had  ruined  him — for  North  was  steady 
enough  before  he  came  under  Stackhouse's  influ- 


214  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

ence — or  why  he  should  have  knocked  down  an 
importunate  gentleman  who  might  have  been  trying 
to  deceive  his  daughter." 

"  Precisely,"  agreed  Thomas. 

"  And  then,"  said  Lamm  slowly,  "  you  throw  the 
idea  of  a  most  deliberate  and  cunningly-laid  con- 
spiracy of  murder  for  security  and  revenge  out  of 
the  question." 

"  Conspiracy?  "  echoed  Thomas. 

"  Conspiracy  !  "  said  John  Lamm. 

Thomas  looked  like  a  doubtful  man  who  would 
be  very  glad  to  become  convinced. 

<l  Yes,"  said  John  Lamm  in  a  tone  of  deep  con- 
viction. "I  am  willing  to  stake  my  professional 
reputation  at  this  stage  of  the  case  on  the  predic- 
tion that  this  murder  of  North  is  a  conspiracy — 
either  for  ruining  Stackhouse  or  for  revenge  upon 
Paul  North." 

"  And — the  girl  is  in  it  ? "  murmured  Thomas, 
apprehensively. 

"  Certainly,  the  girl  is  in  it.  To  be  sure  the  girl 
is  in  it.  You  can't  alter  that  fact  to  save  your  life. 
For  good,  bad,  or  indifferent  purposes — Marion 
Stackhouse  planned  the  game.  Whose  hand  car- 
ried it  out  I  wont  say  at  this  time  ;  but  I  am  con- 
vinced of  one  thing — it  originated  in  her  mind." 

"  Why,  John  Lamm?  Why  ?"  demanded  Thomas, 
aghast. 

"  Because  I  always  look  to  the  character  of  the 
person  to  correspond  to  the  nature  of  the  crime. 
There  is  nobody  else  in  this  little  coterie  capable 


CONSPIRACY!  215 

of  originating  a  crime,  so  cunningly  conceived,  so 
admirably  executed." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  What  do  I  mean !  "  asked  the  detective. 
"Good  heavens,  Thomas,  where  are  your  eyes? 
Can't  you  see  that  in  every  step  we  have  taken  we 
have  been  baffled,  misled,  made  fools  of  ?  Do  you 
imagine  Paul  North  would  have  gone  to  his  town 
house,  shut  up  as  it  was  for  the  summer,  unless  he 
had  been  enticed  there  ?  The  writing  of  Stack- 
house's  name  on  the  wall  proves  conclusively  to 
my  mind  that  Stackhouse  did  not  do  it.  Why,  how 
absurd  it  is  !  The  medical  examiner  gives  180 
seconds  as  a  limit  to  North's  life  after  he  was  shot. 
Do  you  suppose  if  Stackhouse  had  shot  him  he 
would  have  run  away  before  assuring  himself  that 
he  was  dead  ?  Would  he  have  let  North  write  his 
name  on  the  wall  ?  If  North  had  done  it,  wouldn't 
he  have  smeared  it  out  again  ?  WThy,  of  course  he 
would.  And  in  this  name  upon  the  wall  is  the 
animus  of  the  whole  matter.  There  we  see  the 
fangs  and  the  teeth  of  the  serpent.  The  bitter, 
deadly  emnity  that  underlies  the  whole  scheme. 
That  the  entire  object  was  revenge  upon  Stack- 
house  I  do  not  believe.  It  is  too  roundabout  and 
too  dangerous  a  method  of  revenge  ;  but  that  the 
perpetrators  of  the  deed  hated  that  man — why,  the 
fact  is  as  clear  as  sunlight.  Now,  who  hates  Stack- 
house  ?  Who  on  the  day  of  the  discovery  of  the 
crime  drove  him  from  her  side,  from  the  house, 
knowing  full  well,  nay,  triumphantly  welcoming  the 


216  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

fact  in  so  many  words — that  such  an  act  would  only 
deepen  the  suspicion  about  him  ?  Who,  with  Paul 
North  alive,  was  not  free  to  meet  the  man  she  really 
loved  ;  and  who,  Paul  North  dead,  and  Stackhouse 
out  of  the  way,  might  reunite  herself  with  her 
guilty  lover  ?  Who,  for  no  cause  but  one  that 
under  such  circumstances  we  can  understand,  flies 
into  a  passion  of  anger  at  the  remonstrance  of  an 
innocent  girl,  and  is  so  excited  by  the  impending 
crime  that  she  cannot  keep  herself  away  from  the 
scene  ? " 

"  Stop  !     Don't  go  on  !  " 

Thomas  had  risen  and  was  holding  up  his  hand. 
There  was  something  horrible  even  to  this  veteran 
in  the  merciless  arraignment  of  the  sister  of  the 
woman  he  had  protected.  It  might  be  true.  John 
Lamm  was  the  shrewdest  of  shrewd  men  ;  but  he 
would  not  believe  it  until  he  had  all  the  proofs 
before  him. 

"  I  tell  you,  Lamm,"  he  declared,  "  I  will  not 
believe  that  woman  planned  that  murder  as  long  as 
there  is  a  chance  in  the  world  for  a  reasonable 
doubt.  And  I  can  show — " 

There  was  a  rattle  at  the  door-handle. 

"  It's  my  man,  Bill,"  said  the  detective,  "  back 
again  from  Swampscott." 

He  unlocked  the  door. 

"  And  what  has  her  ladyship  to  offer  to-day  ?  " 

"  This." 

The  messenger  placed  a  letter  in  John  Lamm's 
hand.  The  detective  broke  the  seal  and  read  it 


CONSPIRACY!  217 

eagerly.  "  See,"  he  said,  passing  it  to  Thomas, 
"  it's  from  my  little  parlor  maid  at  Swampscott." 

The  reporter  perused  the  missive  in  his  turn. 
With  a  little  editing  it  would  have  read  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  She  is  getting  worse  and  worse.  If  this  goes 
on  much  longer  I  can't  stay  here.  Since  Stella  ran 
away  she's  acted  stranger  than  ever.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  speak  to  her  for  your  life.  Mr.  Fetridge 
called  last  night  again.  Their  talk  was  short.  She 
got  a  letter  from  her  husband  last  night.  I  brought 
it  from  the  post-office,  and  know  his  S's.  She 
spent  all  the  evening,  I  think,  writing,  for  her  room 
was  full  of  tiny  scraps,  written  on,  this  morning  ; 
but  she  must  have  torn  them  all  up,  for  no  letter 
has  been  posted  from  this  house  ;  that's  certain. 
I'm  crazy  to  know  if  that  poor  girl  has  been  heard 
from.  Don't  keep  the  news  from  me,  as  soon  as 
she  is  found.  I  think  Stella's  going  has  scared 
M.  She  looks  like  a  ghost,  and  I'm  afraid  of  her, 
and  so  are  all  the  rest." 

"  It's  evident  she  tried  to  answer  the  letter 
Stackhouse  wrote  her,"  said  Thomas.  "  Some- 
thing must  have  thrown  her  into  an  unusual  state 
of  indecision."  John  Lamm's  comments  were 
entirely  mental.  He  only  remarked  that  he  had 
a  deal  of  work  before  him.  Before  setting  out, 
however,  on  his  new  quests,  the  detective  took  a 
decided  notion  that  he  wanted  to  be  introduced  to 
Stella,  with  whom  he  had  never  been  given  an 
opportunity  to  talk.  Thomas  was  delighted  at  the 


2l8  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

chance  of  converting  his  friend  wholly  to  the  cause 
of  the  unfortunate  girl,  as  he  was  sure  a  visit  to 
her  would  do.  So  the  two  men  were  soon  in  the 
horse-cars,  on  their  way  to  the  reporter's  home. 

Thomas  led  Lamm  to  a  little  room  in  the  second 
story,  where  his  mother — a  delightful  lady  with  a 
sweet  voice  and  a  face  a  little  faded  and  worn  with 
the  cares  of  fifty  years,  but  brimming  full  of  good 
will  and  sympathy  of  a  heart  that  the  years  had 
failed  to  harden — is  seated  at  her  knitting.  The 
old  lady  takes  off  her  spectacles,  and  is  delighted  to 
meet  any  friend  of  her  son,  whom  it  is  easy  to  see 
she  has  placed  in  a  niche  far  above  the  ordinary  walks 
of  mankind.  She  drops  a  little  courtesy,  and  when 
her  son  whispers  in  her  ear,  becomes  brimful  of 
importance  and  mystery.  Going  to  the  door  of 
the  adjoining  chamber — her  own  room — she  says 
something  in  a  low  voice.  There  is  a  rustle  of  a 
woman's  dress,  and  Stella  North  appears  on  the 
threshold.  Pale  and  haunted  by  a  cruel  fear  such 
as  never  troubled  her  young  life  before,  she  is, 
nevertheless,  so  much  her  old  self  that  her  eyes 
seem  ready  to  laugh  again,  and  the  dimples  to  in- 
dent themselves  in  her  pretty  cheeks,  if  sufficient 
encouragement  is  given  for  her  roguish  smile. 
Alas,  poor  child!  Her  accustomed  mirth  had 
been  a  stranger  to  her  for  some  time  ;  and  the 
laughing  face  that  nature  had  given  her  was  only  a 
cruel  mockery.  It  was  useless  for  John  Lamm  to 
ask  himself  whether  she  were  part  and  parcel  of 
the  murderous  conspiracy  which  he  suspected. 


CONSPIRACY!  219 

The  refutation  of  all  doubt  was  written  in  her  clear 
blue  eyes,  her  timid  shrinking  from  a  stranger,  her 
honest,  roguish  face. 

Why,  that  girl  was  meant  for  the  open  air  and 
the  sunshine,  to  sing,  to  love,  to  be  happy,  he 
thought.  It  is  an  incongruous  hardship  that  a 
tragedy  like  this  should  come  into  her  life.  She  is 
as  out  of  place  as  a  gay  soubrette  in  the  family  of 
Lady  Macbeth  ! 

But  when  she  spoke,  when,  encouraged  by  the 
ready  tact  of  Thomas,  she  was  led  to  take  part  in 
the  pleasant  conversation  that  ensued — Thomas 
had  expressly  stipulated  that  no  reference  should 
be  made  to  the  tragedy — why,  then  John  Lamm 
could  not  restrain  his  honest  admiration  and  his 
cordial  sympathy.  A  creature  at  once  so  frank,  so 
free,  so  shy  and  so  bold,  so  modest  and  so  reck- 
less, in  a  breath,  was  enough  to  disarm  the  most 
severe  of  critics.  And  the  detective  pronounced 
her  the  beau  ideal  of  an  innocent,  mischievous, 
light-hearted  girl,  not  too  shallow  to  love,  but 
altogether  too  sunny  to  hate. 

But,  more  than  all,  he  noted  the  half-abashed, 
half-reverential  air  with  which  she  regarded  her 
guardian  Thomas  ;  and  the  peculiar  solicitous, 
respectful,  and  protecting  manner  which  he  ex- 
hibited toward  her. 

"  Well,  well,"  sighed  Lamm,  as  he  walked  away, 
"  there  is  one  outcome  to  the  North  case  which  I 
feel  perfectly  safe  in  predicting  at  the  present 
time.  These  two  people  are  in  love.  A  curious 


220  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

match  !  To  think  that  Thomas  should  meet  his 
fate  under  such  circumstances  !  Well,  well  !  I 
wish  I  felt  so  sure  of  the  rest  as  I  do  of  them  !  " 

And  John  Lamm  hastened  back  to  resume  the 
dropped  thread  of  the  case  which  was  intensifying 
in  interest  with  every  hour  of  investigation. 

"  If  I  am  right,"  he  muttered,  "  I  shall  soon  find 
that  Richard  Fetridge  and  that  curious  woman 
were  in  that  house  together." 

He  went  direct  to  his  inner  office  and  sat  down 
at  his  desk. 


M 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

FETRIDGE    IS    STILL    RETICENT. 

R.  LAMM  had  hardly  got  comfortably  settled 
in  his  chair,  and  was  meditating  a  look  over 
the  Public  Statues  to  freshen  his  memory  on  a  cer- 
tain point,  when  his  familiar  announced  that  Mr. 
Thornton  Stackhouse  was  in  waiting. 

The  broker  showed  in  his  care-furrowed  face 
something  of  the  effect  of  the  strain  he  had  been 
under;  but  until  he  was  alone  with  the  detective  he 
maintained  much  of  his  accustomed  decision  of 
manner.  Then  he  made  no  further  effort  to  con- 
ceal his  anxiety. 

"  Mr.  Lamm,"  he  said,  eagerly  bending  over  the 
table  and  tapping  it  with  nervous  fingers,  "  this 
strain  is  becoming  greater  than  I  can  endure,  and  I 
want  your  best  advice  what  to  do." 

"  You  may  command  me,"  was  the  response, 
given  in  by  no  means  an  unfriendly  tone.  "But 
sit  down,  sit  down,  and  talk  about  the  matter 
calmly." 

"  Calmly  !  "  Stackhouse  smiled  bitterly.     "  You 

do  not  know  what  I  have  to   suffer,  man.      The 

failure  is  bad  enough  ;  the  distrust  of  me  I  see  on 

every  hand  is  hard  to  endure  ;  but  I  could  stand 

221 


222  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

up  against  everything  if  I  did  not  have  trouble  at 
home." 

There  was  a  break  in  the  man's  tone,  but 
he  controlled  himself  in  a  moment,  though  he 
studiously  avoided  meeting  Mr.  Lamm's  steadfast 
look. 

"  My  wife  and  I  have  had  serious  trouble.  I 
cannot  live  here  under  all  these  burdens." 

"Women  are  odd  sometimes,"  said  Lamm,  "  but 
almost  all  of  them  have  some  weak  spot  through 
acquaintance  with  which  they  may  be  managed.  It 
ought  to  be  possible  to  effect  a  reconciliation  with 
your  wife.  Excuse  me  for  speaking  thus  plainly, 
Mr.  Stackhouse." 

"You  know  neither  the  woman  nor  the  cause  of 
the  trouble,"  returned  Stackhouse  hurriedly. 
"  However,  this  was  not  the  subject  I  came  here  to 
discuss." 

"  How  can  I  assist  you,  Mr.  Stackhouse  ?  Com- 
mand me." 

"  Mr.  Lamm,  I  have  every  reason  to  believe  that 
my  steps  are  dogged  :  that  all  my  actions  are  spied 
upon.  If  I  go  in  the  streets  after  dark,  there  is  a 
man  always  just  at  my  elbow.  If  I  make  any  sud- 
den movement  in  the  daytime,  somebody  starts  into 
life  in  an  unexpected  quarter,  and  is  directly  upon 
my  heels.  This  morning  I  opened  a  letter.  As  I 
stood  still  to  read  it,  I  became  aware  that  a  face 
was  peering  over  my  shoulder.  I  turned  suddenly, 
but  the  man  was  quite  as  quick,  and  passed  on 
without  looking  at  me.  But  I  was  well  aware  that 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  223 

I  did  not  now  see  him  for  the  first  time.  All  of 
which  leads  me  to  believe  that  I  am  watched." 

"A  logical  conclusion,  Mr.  Stackhouse." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Stackhouse  nervously, *'  what 
I  came  to  ask  you  was  this  :  Suppose  I  wanted  to  do 
so,  what  do  you  think  of  the  possibility  of  my  get- 
ting quietly  out  of  town  ?" 

The  detective's  warning  finger  was  uplifted  in 
an  instant. 

"  Don't  go,"  pronounced  Mr.  Lamm,  decisively. 
"  By  no  means  try  to  leave  Boston." 

"  You  mean  it  would  be  of  no  use  for  me  to 
try,"  rejoined  Stackhouse  dejectedly.  "  I  know  I 
am  being  dogged  constantly,  but  with  your  help,  I 
thought — " 

"  There  would  be  no  trouble  in  giving  the  slip  to 
the  men  who  follow  you  about,"  said  Mr.  Lamm. 
"  You  could  get  away  from  Boston  easily  enough. 
But  you  would  be  stopped  by  telegraph  before  you 
had  gone  forty  miles.  Come,  Mr.  Stackhouse,  give 
up  the  idea  of  flight.  It  isn't  like  you  to  think  of 
it.  Stay  here  and  fight  your  trouble  out,  man 
fashion,  saying  nothing,  keeping  quietly  about  your 
business.  You  must  not  embarrass  me,  for  one 
thing.  I  am  running  down  the  guilty  party,  I  verily 
believe." 

Stackhouse  rose,  clutching  the  table  with  both 
hands. 

"  You  mean  it  ? "  he  said  hoarsely. 

Mr.  Lamrn  nodded  with  perfect  assurance. 

"  I  do  mean  it,  Mr.  Stackhouse.     Now  you  have 


224  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

retained  me  in  this  case,  don't  spoil  my  work  by  an 
attempt  to  run  away.  It  would  not  only  have  a 
very  bad  appearance,  but  sadly  interfere  with  my 
plans.  Stand  firm.  I  know  you  are  having  a  great 
deal  to  contend  with  ;  but  it  will  only  make  matters 
worse  to — well,  suppose  we  say  change  your  base 
of  operations.  Come !  Promise  me  that  you'll 
quietly  stay  here  in  Boston  until,  at  least,  the  North 
case  ceases  to  be  a  mystery." 

The  detective's  hand  was  stretched  out  as  he 
spoke,  and  soon  encircled  Mr.  Stackhouse's  palm. 
The  warm  grip  seemed  to  put  new  courage  into  the 
man,  and  as  he  thanked  Mr.  Lamm  and  went  out, 
he  seemed  more  like  the  junior  partner  of  North  & 
Stackhouse,  in  their  most  flourishing  days,  than  he 
had  been  for  many  a  day. 

Mr.  Lamm  listened  to  the  retreating  footstep, 
and  felicited  himself  in  having  done  at  least  one 
piece  of  good  work. 

"  I  can't  conscientiously  say,"  he  remarked  to  his 
reflection  in  the  looking-glass,  "  that  I  enjoy  being 
retained  by  quite  so  many  people  in  one  case. 
Before  this  time  I  expected  to  be  able  to  resign 
from  one  or  the  other  ;  but  I  don't  seem  to  be  quite 
able  to  make  up  my  mind.  What  with  Kingman's 
protigtc  and  this  luckless  man  Stackhouse,  I  have 
quite  enough  to  occupy  my  mind  and  thought. 
But  now  for  that  Apollo  whom  I  suspect." 

Mr.  Richard  Fetridge  was  found  in  his  quiet 
little  office  in  anything  but  a  reposeful  state  of  mind, 
and  his  books  and  papers  were  in  great  disorder. 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  225 

"  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Lamm,"  said  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge.  "  Excuse  the  looks  of  the  room,  and  find  a 
chair  for  yourself,  if  you  can.  I've  just  been  clear- 
ing up  my  Nicaragua  Midland  account.  A  tidy 
sum  I've  dropped  into  that  swindle.  It's  not 
the  money  I  care  about,  but  the  being  taken  in 
so  shamefully.  North  &  Stackhouse,  indeed  ! 
A  nice  mess  that  rascally  junior  partner  has  made 
of  it." 

Mr.  Lamm  acquiesced  in  look,  but  not  in  words, 
and  then  began  to  question  his  companion  about 
the  details  of  the  failure  and  its  extent. 

"  The  creditors  wont  get  ten  cents  on  a  dollar, 
sir." 

Richard  Fetridge  had  repeated  these  words  with 
much  emphasis,  when  a  little  dried-up  clerk,  who 
had  been  holding  an  animated  conversation  in  an 
undertone  with  some  one  in  the  passage,  came  up 
with  an  apologetic  air. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter,  Olsen  ?  "  queried  Fet- 
ridge, rather  irritably. 

"  Man  at  the  door,"  answered  the  clerk.  "  Wont 
go  away.  Says  he  must  see  you.  Very  important 
business." 

"  What  sort  of  looking  man  ? "  asked  the  em- 
ployer. 

"  Rather  disreputable,  sir.  Been  drinking,  should 
say,  but  seems  really  to  have  business." 

As  if  by  way  of  emphasizing  unmistakably  Mr. 
Olsen's  half-whispered  words,  an  unkempt  head, 
with  watery  eyes,  peered  in  through  the  doorway. 


226  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Mr.  Lamm  looked  at  him  with  mild  curiosity, 
while  Mr.  Fetridge  gave  a  start  of  recognition. 

"  Good-day,  sir,"  said  a  shambling  figure  that 
little  by  little  gained  a  foothold  within  the  room. 
"  Mr.  Fetridge,  good-day,  sir.  I  hope  you  are  well, 
sir." 

Without  awaiting  an  answer  to  these  salutations, 
delivered  in  rather  a  thick  voice,  Mr.  Fetridge  mo- 
tioned the  clerk  aside,  and  said  to  the  detective 
under  his  breath — 

"  Just  go  into  the  inside  office  yonder  a  moment. 
I  suppose  I  must  see  this  fellow ;  but  I'll  not  be 
long." 

Inwardly  wondering,  Mr.  Lamm  suffered  himself 
to  be  introduced  into  a  little  room  with  a  window 
opening  out  upon  a  wall,  and  furnished  with  two 
chairs,  a  deal  table,  and  several  rows  of  shelves 
occupied  by  dusty  books. 

There  was  a  fan-light  over  the  door  that  gave 
access  to  the  larger  office.  Thus  much  the  detec- 
tive knew  at  first  glance. 

"  I  must  use  that  fan-light,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"This  proceeding  of  Fetridge  is  very  curious.  It 
may  be  only  one  of  his  whims — he's  a  notional  man, 
I  can  see.  But  at  any  rate,  it  will  do  no  harm  to 
watch  the  interview.  What  can  a  well-to-do  man 
like  Fetridge  have  in  common  with  a  fellow  like 
that  ? " 

As  Mr.  Lamm  asked  himself  the  question  he 
noiselessly  brought  a  chair  to  the  door,  and  followed 
that  proceeding  with  an  equally  silent  transfer  of 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  227 

several  books.  By  the  aid  of  this  device  the  detec- 
tive found  himself  able  to  look  through  the  fan-light 
unobserved,  and  soon  realized  that  he  could  hear 
as  well  as  see. 

The  unkempt  head  was  unpleasantly  near  Mr. 
Fetridge,  as  Mr.  Lamm  looked  in,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  disgust  on  Mr.  Fetridge's  countenance  left 
no  room  to  doubt  that  he  fully  realized  the  fact. 

"  I  wan'  ten  doll'rs,  an'  I  wan'  it  now,"  remarked 
the  caller,  thickly,  but  emphatically. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  returned  Fetridge,  draw- 
ing away  his  arm.  "  Didn't  you  promise,  on  your 
honor,  when  I  gave  you  the  money  last  time  that 
you  wouldn't  trouble  me  again  ? " 

There  was  a  cunning  look  in  the  bleared,  red  eyes. 

"  I  was  half  full  and  don*  remember  what  I  said," 
he  rejoined.  "  Don'  care,  anyway.  I  wan'  that 
ten  doll'rs,  and  I  must  have  it !  " 

The  visitor  shook  his  trembling  hand  at  Fetridge 
with  an  apology  for  a  threat.  Mr.  Lamm,  rather 
surprised,  noticed  that  the  business  man  did  not 
openly  resent  his  companion's  tone,  but  stood  there, 
evidently  in  much  perplexity  of  mind. 

"Come,"  continued  the  tramp  in  louder  tones. 
"  You  can't  frighten  me  !  I  know  where  you  were 
that  night — don't  forget  that !  " 

Mr.  Fetridge  wheeled  his  importunate  caller 
around  and  said,  in  apprehensive  warning — 

"Hush!  Don't  speak  so  loud!  There  are 
people  within  hearing  !  " 

"  Hand  over,  then,"  answered  the  man  sullenly, 


228  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  and  make  no  more  bones  about  the  matter, 
either ! " 

As  if  fearful  of  some  interruption,  Fetridge  put 
some  money  between  the  grimy  fingers  of  his  credi- 
tor and  fairly  pushed  him  out  of  the  room  amid 
some  mutterings  which  the  watcher  at  the  fan-light 
could  not  overhear. 

Mr.  Lamm  had  restored  the  books  to  the  shelves 
and  was  sitting  down,  looking  out  into  the  well, 
when  Fetridge  opened  the  door  of  the  little  office. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said  ;  "  I've  got  rid  of  the  fellow  ; 
used  to  be  a  gardener  on  my  place  at  Svvampscott, 
and  I  put  up  with  his  visits  because  he  is  really  a 
capable  man  when  not  in  liquor." 

John  Lamm  looked  Richard  Fetridge  full  in  the 
face. 

"  When  I  am  in  a  gentleman's  employ,"  he  began, 
"  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  done  my  full  duty  as 
confidential  detective  if  I  do  not  warn  him  when 
he  is  treading  on  dangerous  ground." 

Richard  Fetridge  grew  a  little  red  in  the  face. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  asked,  constrainedly. 

"  I  mean  that  when  a  gentleman  situated  as  you 
are  pays  blackmail  to  a  man  who  looks  like  a  dirty 
tramp — " 

Mr.  Fetridge  turned  upon  him  hotly. 

"  This  is  going  too  far,  Mr.  Lamm  ;  altogether 
too  far.  It  is  none  of  your  business." 

"  Pardon  me,"  answered  the  detective  very  un- 
perturbably.  "  Under  the  circumstances,  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge, it  is  my  business  to  warn  you,  very  emphati- 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  229 

cally,  that  your  giving  money  to  this  man  here,  just 
now,  was  a  very  ticklish  and  dangerous  proceed- 
ing. You  may  ask  how  I  know." 

"  I  do  ask  how  you  know,"  put  in  Mr.  Fetridge, 
with  anger  and  shame  contending  for  the  master}'. 

"  It  was  dangerous,  Mr.  Fetridge,  because  you 
are  one  of  the  parties  under  surveillance  in  this 
matter  of  the  murder  of  Paul  North." 

"What?" 

"  Don't  get  excited,  sir.  I  am  simply  stating 
facts.  You  were  the  last  person  seen  with  Paul 
North,  so  far  as  the  evidence  in  hand  indicates. 
Consequently,  until  more  is  known  about  this  phase 
of  the  case,  you  are  under  suspicion,  to  a  certain 
extent.  Whether  you  know  it  or  not,  sir,  you  have 
been  watched  almost  constantly." 

"  Watched  !  "  ejaculated  Fetridge,  now  very  pale. 

"  Watched.  By  the  police,"  pursued  Mr.  Lamm. 
"  Now  I  have  been  frank  with  you,  and  you  must 
be  equally  frank  with  me.  How  do  you  imagine 
my  services  as  confidential  detective  can  be  of  value 
to  you,  Mr.  Fetridge,  if  you  do  not  give  me  your 
entire  confidence?" 

There  was  some  answer  on  Mr.  Fetridge's  lips, 
but  he  could  not  seem  to  give  it  utterance. 

Mr.  Lamm  pursued  his  advantage  steadily. 

"  Let  me  ask  you  one  question.  You  paid  black- 
mail to  that  man  because  he  knew  that  you  had  an 
interview  with  Paul  North  at  his  house  the  night  of 
the  murder.  Am  I  not  right  ?" 

Fetridge  started  up. 


230  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  exclaimed,  "  but  you 
misapprehend  the  state  of  the  case,  Mr.  Lamm.  I 
did  not  pay  the  man  because  I  feared  to  have  the 
truth  known  on  my  account.  I  have  kept  silent  on 
the  subject  simply  out  of  respect  for  the  feelings  of 
Mr.  North's  family." 

Somewhat  enigmatical  and  unsatisfactory  Mr. 
Lamm  thought  this  statement.  But  he  made  no 
comment,  and  continued  his  questioning. 

"  If  this  is  not  a  case  of  blackmail,  Mr.  Fetridge, 
why  did  you  pay  this  man  money  ?  Do  you  mean 
to  say  you  were  not  at  Paul  North's  house  that 
night  ?" 

Mr.  Fetridge  by  this  time  had  regained  his  com- 
posure. 

"  I  have  no  hesitation  in  saying  to  you  that  I 
was  at  his  house  that  night,"  he  answered. 

The  detective's  face  grew  dark. 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  this  ?  Why  did  you 
not  make  the  fact  known  to  the  police  ? " 

"  For  the  simple  reason  that  the  police  have  not 
asked  me." 

Mr.  Lamm  took  an  impatient  step  or  two  around 
the  room. 

"  Mr.  Fetridge,  you  are  an  enigma,"  he  resumed, 
rather  sharply.  "  Perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough 
to  explain  why  you  permitted  the  public  to  have 
the  impression  that  you  parted  with  Paul  North  for 
the  last  time  the  afternoon  before  the  murder  at 
the  Old  State  House  ?  " 

"  I  had  no  idea  or  suspicion  that  Mr.  North  had 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.          231 

been  put  out  of  the  way  when  I  made  that  state- 
ment at  the  directors'  meeting,"  Mr.  Fetridge  ex- 
plained. "  Besides,  Stackhouse  was  there.  I  would 
not  have  let  him  know  of  my  private  conference 
with  Mr.  North  for  a  great  deal.  And  since  the 
crime  came  out,  I  have  been  living  in  hope  that 
you  would  discover  the  facts  in  season  for  me  to 
keep  out  of  any  possible  connection  with  the  affair. 
I  should  have  told  you  about  it ;  I  realize  it  now. 
But  what's  past  is  past." 

Mr.  Fetridge  sat  down  resignedly. 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  Mr.  North's  that  evening  ?  " 
Mr.  Lamm  questioned,  now  quite  unmoved,  so  far 
as  outward  appearance  was  concerned. 

"  To  discuss  a  business  matter." 

"  A  queer  place  !  "  Mr.  Lamm  spoke  in  a  sig- 
nificant tone. 

"  You  think  so  ?  Yet  I  had  peculiar  reasons, 
and  I  accounted  them  weighty  reasons,  for  meet- 
ing Mr.  North  at  his  house.  My  business  was  con- 
fidential, and  could  not  be  done  at  the  office  or  in 
any  place  so  well  as  at  the  house  in  Marlboro 
Street." 

"  Mr.  North's  partner  was  not  a  party  to  the  busi- 
ness in  hand  ?" 

Fetridge's  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

"  It  would  have  been  well  if  he  had  not  been  a 
party  to  any  of  North  &  Stackhouse's  business,"  he 
said,  with  some  bitterness  of  tone.  "  But  this  was 
a  special  matter.  How  important  it  was  you  may 
judge  from  this  fact — that  if  Stackhouse  had  found 


232  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

out  that  North  was  possessed  of  the  information  I 
gave  him,  and  did  not  know  that  I  knew  it  also,  he 
would  have  had  an  ample  motive  for  committing  the 
crime  of  which  I  believe  him  guilty." 

Mr.  Lamm  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"  And  you  still  wish  to  keep  the  subject  of  your 
last  conversation  a  secret,  even  from  me  ? " 

"  Even  from  you,"  responded  Fetridge  obsti- 
nately. "  I  must  await  developments,  and  I  hope 
those  developments  will  preclude  the  necessity  of 
my  speaking  about  the  matter  at  all." 

"  Bear  in  mind  what  I  said  to  you  just  now  about 
surveillance."  Mr.  Lamm  spoke  gravely.  "  You 
are  liable  to  arrest  at  any  time." 

Fetridge  gave  an  incredulous  laugh. 

"  I  don't  think  they'll  arrest  me,"  Fetridge  an- 
swered  lightly.  Then,  in  a  more  serious  tone, 
"  One  thing  I'll  tell  you,  Mr.  Lamm.  To  the  best 
of  my  knowledge  and  belief  Stackhouse  was  in 
Paul  North's  house  that  night." 

"  Something  more  than  knowledge  and  belief 
is  requisite — evidence,"  responded  Mr.  Lamm, 
rather  drily.  "  There's  much  in  this  whole  busi- 
ness that  concerns  you  closely — more  closely, 
perhaps,  than  you  think.  At  what  time  did  you 
leave  Paul  North's  house  in  Marlboro  Street 
that  night  ?  " 

"  Between  half-past  eight  and  a  quarter  to  nine." 

"  Was  there  any  one  in  the  street  or  near  by,  so 
far  as  you  know  ?  " 

"  No  one.     But  I  had  not  gone  far  when  this 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  233 

fellow  who  was  here  just  now  touched  me  on  the 
shoulder.  I  turned  round  and  recognized  him." 

"  Oho  !     You  know  him,  then  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  He  used  to  be  head  clerk  in  North 
&  Stackhouse's  office  :  got  to  speculating  ;  was 
pinched  in  Nicaragua  Midland  ;  lost  his  little  all ; 
took  to  drink  and  so  forth.  I  pitied  the  fellow, 
knowing  how  he  came  to  be  down  in  the  world,  and 
occasionally  gave  him  a  little  to  help  him  along." 

"  He  wanted  money  that  night,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Of  course.  I  didn't  fancy  his  having  met  me 
at  such  a  time  and  place,  and  as  I  handed  him  the 
five-dollar  note  I  bade  him  not  mention  having 
seen  me.  He  readily  agreed,  and  then  started  off 
in  a  hurry.  To  meet  some  one  round  the  corner, 
I  suppose."  And  Mr.  Fetridge  sighed. 

Mr.  Lamm  pursed  his  lips  together.  "And  since 
then  the  fellow  has  been  hunting  you  for  more 
money." 

"That's  about  the  state  of  the  case,"  answered 
Fetridge,  rather  reluctantly.  "  You  understand,  I 
thought  it  was  cheaper  to  buy  the  man's  silence, 
being  sure  that  a  few  days  would  clear  up  the  whole 
matter." 

The  detective  shook  his  head.  "  Very  risky 
business,  sir.  But  never  mind  that  now.  A  few 
moments  ago  you  said  something  about  believing 
Stackhouse  had  been  at  North's  house  that  night. 
Why  ? " 

"  Why  ? "  returned  Fetridge.  "  The  outer  door — 
the  storm  door — was  unlocked  when  we  came  there. 


234  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Mr.  North  himself  called  my  attention  to  the  fact. 
'  Hullo,'  he  said,  '  Thornton  is  here  probably.'  I 
knew  it  would  never  do  to  have  that  man  overhear 
our  conversation,  and  we  searched  the  house  high 
and  low.  Finally  I  was  convinced  that,  though 
Stackhouse  may  have  been  there,  he  had  gone  away 
again.  The  idea  that  he  might  come  back  that 
night  never  entered  my  head.  But  I  have  no  doubt 
whatever  now  that  he  did  come  back,  and  that 
Thornton  Stackhouse  was  the  last  person  who  saw 
Paul  North  alive." 

"  Indeed  !  Well  then,  Mr.  Fetridge,  I  must  re- 
quest a  reply  to  a  question  I  asked  you  once  before. 
What  connection  has  this  Creole  woman,  Marie 
Moissot,  with  the  case  ?  " 

Fetridge  started. 

"  You  told  me  once,  I  believe,  that  the  medical 
examiner  says  that  the  murder  was  committed  in 
the  first  part  of  the  evening?" 

"I  did,  sir." 

"  Thank  you.     I  wanted  to  be  sure.' 

"  But  what  has  this  to  do  with  the  Creole  ? " 
Lamm  asked  with  some  impatience. 

"  Oh,"  returned  Fetridge,  with  an  unsuccessful 
assumption  of  carelessness,  "  I  forgot.  Excuse 
me.  My  mind  wandered  from  the  subject.  The 
Creole  woman  ?  She  has  no  connection  with  the 
murder.  That  is  quite  impossible." 

"  Then  once  more  I  ask  you,  plainly,  who  is 
she?" 

"  Well,  then,  plainly,  sir,  I  .will  answer  you.     She 


FETRIDGE  IS  STILL  RETICENT.  235 

was  a  foolish  girl  who  believed  too  readily  in  Stack- 
house.  He  parted  from  her  and  went  on,  and  she, 
I  suppose,  had  to  suffer  for  her  credulity.  But  this 
was  ten  years  ago,  and  he  has  doubtless  forgotten 
her." 

"  Ah  !  Well,  this  brings  me  to  another  question. 
How  comes  Marion  Stackhouse  to  know  of  the 
existence  of  this  woman  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  exclaimed  Fetridge  excitedly. 
"  She  does  not,  does  she  ? " 

"I  think  she  does,"  said  Lamm  dreamily.  "  But 
passing  that,  since  you  do  not  know,  we  come  to 
question  No.  2.  Why  does  Marion  Stackhouse 
refuse  to  live  with  her  husband  since  the  murder?" 

Fetridge  flushed. 

"  You  will  persist,  Mr.  Lamm,  for  some  strange 
reason,  in  assuming  me  to  be  in  Mrs.  Stackhouse's 
confidence." 

"  I  know  that  you  are  a  friend  of  the  family," 
said  the  detective  calmly. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Fetridge,  "  I  give  you  my  word 
of  honor  that  I  am  not  in  that  lady's  confidence. 
I  have  urged  her  to  tell  me  her  reasons.  She 
declines  to  do  it.  I  can  only  guess  at  them.  Her 
conduct  is  significant  enough  to  me  that  she  has  by 
some  means  become  possessed  of  evidence  against 
her  husband.  But  what  wife  would  acknowledge 
such  a  fact  ?  " 

"Ah  !  "  was  Mr.  Lamm's  only  reply  to  this  inter- 
rogatory.  Neither  Mr.  Fetridge  nor  anybody  else 
would  be  likely  to  gain  much  Information  from  this 


236  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

characteristic  grunt,  which  was  even  more  than 
non-committal. 

"  By  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Lamm,  as  he  rose  to  go, 
"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  tell  you  that  press  of  other 
business  is  liable  to  cause  me  to  drop  your  work  at 
short  notice,  Mr.  Fetridge.  I  had  no  idea,  when  I 
took  the  case,  that  it  would  last  so  long." 

"  I  hope  not,"  said  Fetridge  earnestly. 

"  I  hope  not,  too,"  returned  Mr.  Lamm  ;  "  but  I 
must  say  the  case  looks  dubious  at  the  present  time. 
However,  I'll  let  you  know  definitely  very  soon." 

"  Confound  that  man,"  muttered  the  detective,  as 
he  went  down  the  stairs.  "  It  is  not  at  all  improb- 
able that  he  may  find  out  some  day  that  in  dealing 
with  a  man  of  my  standing  and  profession  it  will 
pay  him  to  stick  to  the  truth.  One  link  more  in 
the  chain  of  evidence,  and  then  good-by,  Richard 
Fetridge !  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MADAME     RAYMOND. 

JOHN  LAMM,  confident  that  a  conspiracy  was 
I  to  be  found  at  the  bottom  of  the  North  case, 
was  reasonably  sure  already  of  two  parties  there- 
to— Marion  Stackhouse  and  Richard  Fetridge. 
Whether  there  was  anybody  else  concerned  he  had 
not  yet  made  up  his  mind.  The  plain  yet  puzzling 
charge  of  Thornton  Stackhouse  in  the  letter  to  the 
Moissot  woman,  who  seemed  to  the  detective  to 
have  been  created  for  the  express  purpose  of 
tantalizing  him  with  the  enigma  of  her  existence, 
indicated  that  Stackhouse  himself  had  reason  to 
believe  her  the  head  and  front  of  all  offense. 

Again  and  again  John  Lamm  studied  that  letter, 
endeavoring  to  squeeze  out  of  it  the  last  drop  of 
possible  significance  ;  but  the  writer  had  so  well 
chosen  his  words,  with  the  evident  purpose  of 
making  them  unintelligible  to  a  third  person,  that 
the  detective  was  suspicious  of  what  seemed  the 
logical  deductions  therefrom.  One  thing  was  cer- 
tain. Stackhouse  charged  Marie  Moissot  (the 
"  person  unknown "  of  Mr.  Lamm's  notes)  with 
having  carried  to  successful  issue,  on  the  i6th  of 
June,  a  conspiracy  to  ruin  him,  and  Mr.  Lamm  be- 
237 


238  WRITTEN-  IN  RED. 

lieved  himself  fully  possessed  of  the  unfortunate 
events  which  had  overwhelmed  this  man  during 
that  day.  The  discovery  of  this  unique  charge  of 
murder  written  in  red  on  the  wall  of  North's  library, 
he  did  not  forget  was  not  the  only  misfortune. 
The  extraordinary  conduct  of  his  wife  was  quite  as 
serious  to  Stackhouse,  not  impossibly  more  so  than 
this  implied  accusation.  To  be  sure,  these  two 
conspicuous  facts  seemed  to  be  part  and  parcel  of 
one  larger  fact,  and  perhaps  appeared  to  Mr. 
Stackhouse's  mind  as  one  thing  ;  but  the  detective 
was  altogether  too  cautious  not  to  have  seen  that 
the  letter  might  refer  to  either  one  of  these  calami- 
ties. The  problem  in  John  Lamm's  mind,  there- 
fore, stood  in  this  wise  : 

Q.  Does  Mr.  Stackhouse  hold  Marie  Moissot 
responsible  for  implicating  him  in  the  murder  of 
his  partner  or  in  embittering  his  domestic  rela- 
tions ? 

Q.  If  the  former  were  his  belief,  would  he  not 
have  acquainted  me  with  the  fact  ? 

And  as  Mr.  Lamm  could  not  help  answering  the 
latter  question  in  the  affirmative,  he  was  still  reason- 
ably sure  that  there  was  no  evidence  in  his  pos- 
session of  a  third  party  to  the  great  "  conspiracy  " 
which  was  so  puzzling  him. 

Whence  it  seemed  to  be  plain  that  his  present 
duty  was  to  center  his  efforts  upon  the  two  people 
whom  he  suspected — to  investigate  their  doings 
thoroughly,  to  watch  both  of  them  with  all  possible 
vigilance. 


MADAME  RA  YMOND.  239 

To  keep  Marion  Stackhouse  under  surveillance 
was  a  comparatively  easy  task.  She  had  not  left 
the  confines  of  the  North  estate,  except  on  the 
occasion  of  the  funeral,  since  the  discovery  of  her 
father's  death  ;  and  for  a  full  report  of  her  con- 
duct for  the  immediate  present  Lamm  felt  he  could 
safely  rely  on  the  vigilance  of  Moffett  and  Mollie 
White.  But  the  movements  of  Richard  Fetridge 
were  not  so  easily  followed.  Consequently,  John 
Lamm  did  not  dare  to  trust  this  apparently  most 
important  task  to  anybody  but  himself  and  those 
under  his  active  supervision. 

On  the  Wednesday  when  he  received  Thomas's 
confidence  in  the  Stella  North  affair,  Lamm  re- 
doubled the  safeguards  and  precautions  previously 
taken  to  assure  himself  of  the  integrity  of  Richard 
Fetridge.  Not  that  he  ignored  other  possibilities 
of  investigation.  Into  the  past  lives  of  Stackhouse 
and  North  and  Marion  he  was  already  instituting 
the  most  careful  inquiries  ;  but  Fetridge's  career 
interested  him  still  more.  With  that  affable  good 
fellowship  which  made  it  possible  for  him  to  make 
friends  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men,  he 
insinuated  himself  into  the  good  graces  of  Fet- 
ridge's clerk,  and  hearing  that  Olsen  had  a  prede- 
cessor who  had  been  discharged  for  taking  too 
much  interest  in  his  employer's  affairs,  he  hunted 
up  that  man,  with  what  degree  of  reward  will  be 
hereafter  recorded. 

He  soon  discovered  that  Mr.  Fetridge  had  ceased 
to  take  active  interest  in  legal  work,  that  he 


240  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

but  few  clients,  and  that  his  chief  business  now 
seemed  to  be  to  look  after  the  investments  of  his 
large  property.  John  Lamm  made  arrangements  to 
be  accurately  informed  from  day  to  day  of  a  full  list 
of  the  millionaire's  office  visitors,  especially  of  those 
whom  he  took  into  his  inner  sanctum,  and  whose 
business  with  him  appeared  to  be  confidential. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  he  first  became  informed 
of  the  existence  of  Madame  Raymond. 

Here  is  the  report  furnished  by  Richard  Fet- 
ridge's  clerk,  Olsen,  late  in  the  afternoon  of  Thurs- 
day : 

"  About  three  o'clock,  a  mighty  pretty  woman, 
whose  complexion  had  evidently  been  toned  up  by 
artificial  expedients,  asked,  in  a  tone  of  authority,  if 
Mr.  Fetridge  was  in.  I  said  '  No'  ;  but  she  might 
expect  him  in  a  few  minutes.  Would  she  sit  down 
and  wait  ?  She  would.  She  drew  her  chair  up 
near  the  window,  and  looked  out  all  the  time.  It 
struck  me  she  was  careful  not  to  turn  round  when 
anybody  came  in.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  it  occurred 
to  me  that  she  did  this  so  as  not  to  let  her  face  be 
seen  by  any  chance  visitor. 

"  It  was  something  like  thirty  minutes  before  the 
boss  appeared.  As  soon  as  she  heard  his  voice  she 
turned  round.  The  boss  gave  a  start.  'Why, 
Madame  Raymond/  he  said,  and  surprised  enough 
he  was.  But  he  hurried  her  toward  his  private 
office,  saying  something  in  a  low  tone,  and  looking 
over  in  my  direction.  But  you  may  believe  I  was 
adding  up  a  column  of  figures  just  at  that  time. 


MADAME  RA  YMOND.  241 

"  Well,  the  two  were  closeted  an  hour  together, 
and  then  the  woman  came  out.  Always  the 
politest  of  men  is  my  boss  when  a  good-looking 
face  is  about.  He  danced  attendance  on  her, 
and  I  heard  him  say,  as  he  took  her  hand  at 
the  door  : 

" '  Have  no  anxiety,  my  dear  madam.  Every- 
thing is  being  carefully  looked  after.  Trust  me  to 
see  that  all  comes  out  right.' 

"  And  that  was  the  last  I  saw  of  the  woman." 

Mr.  Lamm,  with  all  his  eagerness  to  get  at  the 
case  only  intensified  by  these  incomplete  and  un- 
satisfactory disclosures,  requested  his  informant 
to  let  him  know  the  instant  that  unknown  woman 
appeared  in  Fetridge's  office  again. 

He  was  prepared  for  an  indefinite  period  of 
waiting,  and  the  arrival  of  this  brief  message  the 
morning  of  the  day  after  he  had  given  these  last 
instructions,  came  as  a  pleasant  surprise  : 

"  She  is  here." 

With  all  speed  the  detective  made  his  way  towards 
the  substantial  brick  building  where  Richard  Fet- 
ridge  was  usually  to  be  found  during  business 
hours  on  any  week-day  of  the  year. 

Waiting  in  the  quiet  corridor,  Mr.  Lamm  found 
the  place  almost  as  deserted,  this  summer  morning, 
as  if  it  were  a  bank  holiday.  But  the  echo  of  a 
door  closing  on  the  flight  above,  and  the  sound  of 
two  voices,  one  of  which  was  certainly  Fetridge's, 
in  amicable  conversation,  soon  demanded  his  close 
attention. 


24*  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

It  was  a  woman's  voice  that  spoke  the  only 
"  good-by  "  that  came  unmistakably  to  the  ears  of 
the  detective ;  and  a  woman's  light  step  heard  on 
the  stairway  gave  him  assurance  that  the  mysterious 
Madame  Raymond  was  coming  his  way. 

A  slight  built,  willowly  woman,  this,  thought  Mr. 
Lamm,  as  he  watched  her  pass  near  at  hand,  his 
own  presence  entirely  unoticed.  Pretty,  an  olive 
complexion,  a  little  too  much  "  made  up  "  ;  large, 
lustrous  eyes,  black  hair  (her  own  undoubtedly),  a 
very  graceful  figure.  Altogether,  as  Mr.  Lamm 
summed  up  the  case,  an  attractive  brunette  on  the 
sunny  side  of  thirty,  with  something  of  a  foreign 
air  about  her.  Assuredly  a  visitor  to  Boston, 
wherever  born  and  bred. 

The  graceful  figure,  well  set  off  by  a  coquettish 
bonnet,  which,  like  the  summer  wrap,  had  a  pleasant 
contrast  of  color  in  it,  flitted  through  the  streets. 

Followed  by  more  than  one  admiring  glance,  the 
lady  was  followed  also  by  Mr.  Lamm,  though  not 
one  of  the  many  acquaintances  with  whom  the 
detective  exchanged  a  bow  and  a  pleasant  word 
would  have  suspected  the  fact. 

Madam  Raymond,  hailing  a  South  End  car  and 
taking  a  seat  with  dainty  supervision  of  her  skirts, 
looked  at  the  shop  windows  past  which  her  route 
took  her,  with  languid  curiosity.  Mr.  Lamm,  two 
seats  behind,  did  not  seem  to  notice  her.  Madame 
Raymond  left  the  car  at  a  shady  crossing;  and  Mr. 
Lamm,  having  seen  her  on  to  the  footpath  and  well 
around  the  corner,  swung  off  the  car  in  his  turn 


MADAME  RA  YMOND.  243 

and  quite  casually  walked  up  the  street  which  the 
lady  had  traversed  just  before. 

Mr.  Lamm  was  going  by  a  modest-looking  house, 
with  a  high  doorstep,  just  as  Madame  Raymond 
was  ringing  the  bell.  She  was  admitted  in  a 
moment,  and  Mr.  Lamm  still  walked  on,  turning 
the  corner  and  taking  a  meditative  promenade 
down  a  dusty  avenue  for  a  little  distance. 

But  the  now  invisible  magnet  still  drew  him  to 
that  quiet  little  street  and  to  the  ninth  house  on  the 
right  in  a  distractingly  regular  row  of  highly- 
respectable  looking  dwellings.  "  A  boarding- 
house,"  commented  Mr.  Lamm,  as  he  leisurely 
looked  at  the  windows  on  his  way  up  the  steps. 
"  No  need  of  a  sign  to  tell  that  fact." 

In  his  suave  inquiry  regarding  eligible  lodgings, 
the  careworn  landlady  who  opened  the  door  took 
an  instant  interest.  She  liked  the  man's  face,  as 
she  confided  an  hour  later  to  an  intimate  friend  in 
the  millinery  line,  who  chanced  to  call. 

"  We  have  a  very  good  room  back,  up  one  flight, 
sir  ;  quite  near  the  bathroom." 

"  Ah  !  "  The  caller  seemed  to  be  considering. 
"I'm  a  quiet  man  of  business,  you  understand.  No 
gay  roysterers,  no  noisy  lodgers,  no  piano  thump- 
ing at  midnight,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  no,  sir,"  the  landlady  assured  him- 
"  Fact  is,  we're  rather  empty  now.  Only  two 
clerks,  very  nice,  steady  young  men,  on  the  third 
floor,  and  a  transient,  a  lady,  who  occupies  the 
parlor  bedroom  front,  second  story." 


244  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  She's  not  musical  ?  " 

"  I  think  not,  sir.  She's  not  sung  since  she 
came  here,  to  my  knowledge,  a  week  ago  last 
Wednesday,  I  think  it  was — yes,  I  am  sure,  for 
the  man  was  sent  in  to  whiten  the  walls  that 
day,  and  that  is  how  I  came  to  remember  it." 

"  Lady  a  transient,  you  say.  Stranger,  then,  of 
course  ? " 

"  It's  her  first  visit  to  Boston,  she  tells  me.  She 
lives  in  New  York,  and  is  here  on  a  little  business. 
Settling  up  an  estate,  I  think,  though  she's  not  said 
so  in  just  so  many  words." 

"  Ah  !  Well,  in  that  case,  she  can't  have  many 
friends  to  call  on  her  in  the  evening,  and  chatter, 
chatter,  giggle,  giggle  for  hours  together  ?  " 

The  landlady  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  Lamm 
resumed,  in  a  very  friendly,  off-hand  fashion. 

"  You  see,  ma'am,  I  should  be  quite  near  her 
room  if  I  concluded  to  come  here,  and  as  I'm  a 
quiet  man  and  go  to  bed  early,  I  don't  want  to  be 
kept  awake  by  late  and  noisy  callers  or  any  other 
lodgers.  That  was  the  objection  at  my  last  place, 
ma'am." 

The  landlady  smoothed  her  apron  complacently. 
"  No  such  difficulty  here,  sir,"  she  said  with  confi- 
dence. "  Why,  Madame  Raymond  has  only  had 
one  caller  since  she's  been  here,  and  I  don't  know 
as  you  can  call  it  a  caller  either,  for  he  merely  came 
home  with  her  the  evening  of  the  day  after  the  lady 
took  the  room  here.  Yes,  it  was  Thursday  week. 
I  noticed  him  with  her  at  the  door  when  I  answered 


MADAME  RA  YMOND.  245 

her  ring.  It  was  after  nine  o'clock,  and  I  had  got 
worried  about  her,  being  a  stranger  and  so  on,  so 
that  I  was  very  glad  to  see  she  had  company.  '  My 
brother,'  she  said  to  me,  and  a  nice  appearing  gen- 
tleman he  was.  I  liked  his  face.  Well,  he  came  in 
and  had  a  quiet  talk  with  the  lady — a  talk  that  you 
couldn't  hear  an  inch  outside  the  room,  and  couldn't 
possibly  disturb  anybody.  Madame  Raymond  has 
been  out  once  or  twice,  but  no  one  else  has  called 
on  her,  and  I  am  sure  that  nothing  she  and  the 
brother  could  say,  if  he  should  come  to  see  her 
again,  could  possibly  disturb  you,  sir." 

Mr.  Lamm  was  very  far  indeed  from  sharing  this 
opinion  of  the  lady  who  so  desired  his  presence  as 
a  lodger.  But  his  face  wore  a  look  of  entire,  unquali- 
fied assent.  He  asked  to  see  the  much-commended 
apartment  "  back,  up  one  flight,"  approved  its 
arrangements,  and  declared  the  price  very  reason- 
able. 

But  the  best  guarantee  of  his  satisfaction  was 
that  he  actually  decided  to  take  the  room  at  once. 
A  week's  rent  in  advance  was  deposited  in  the  land- 
lady's willing  hand.  Mr.  Lamm  took  a  receipt  for 
the  money  with  a  latchkey  rolled  up  therewith,  and, 
saying  that  he  might  come  in  to  occupy  the  room 
at  any  time,  bade  the  woman  "  good-day  "  and  went 
toward  his  office,  with  thoughts  in  plenty  to  occupy 
his  attention. 

He  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  high 
time  to  come  to  a  thorough  understanding  with  the 
man  to  whose  cause  he  had  almost  determined  to 


246  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

ally  himself — Thornton  Stackhouse.  It  was  with 
genuine  pleasure,  therefore,  that  he  found  that 
gentleman  awaiting  him  in  his  inner  office.  Some- 
thing about  the  man  had  excited  his  sympathies 
from  the  first,  and  he  never  felt  more  kindly  disposed 
toward  him  than  on  the  present  occasion.  He 
looked  into  his  haggard  face  anxiously,  and  after 
that  look  he  did  not  need  to  hear  the  man  speak  to 
know  that  he  had  come  to  make  some  important 
disclosure. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  SO    LONG    AS   SHE    LIVES   I    AM    IN    DANGER." 

ON  his  return  to  headquarters  from  some  business 
in  connection  with  the  North  case,  Friday 
morning,  a  week  after  the  discovery  of  the  murder, 
Inspector  Applebee  found  a  genuine  surprise 
awaiting  him. 

"  There  is  a  lady  in  there  who  has  been  waiting 
to  see  you  for  some  time,"  observed  one  of  his 
assistants,  and  immediately  after  the  inspector 
found  himself  closeted  with  the  identical  lady 
whose  reception  of  him  on  a  previous  occasion  had 
led  him  to  denounce  her  to  his  superior  as  an 
idiotic  and  unavailable  personage — none  other,  in 
fact,  than  Aunt  Comfort  Hanvood. 

It  is  not  probable  that  the  good  old  lady  recog- 
nized in  Mr.  Applebee  the  gentleman  whom  she 
supposed  to  have  been  in  the  gas  or  water  business 
when  he  visited  her  at  Swampscott. 

The  chaotic  condition  of  her  mind  at  that  time 
had  been  no  more  pronounced  than  her  agitation 
and  excitement  on  the  present  occasion. 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  Mr.  Policeman,"  said  Aunt  Com- 
fort, hastening  to  open  a  little  reticule  which  she 
carried  at  her  side,  as  soon  as  her  eyes  fell  on  the 
247 


248  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

inspector's  portly  form.  "  Oh  !  my  dear  Mr.  Po- 
liceman— if  you  are  the  proper  man — yes,  thank 
you — I  have  found  the  most  awful  thing  in  the 
house,  and,  though  Mrs.  Stackhouse  said  it  was  all 
nonsense,  I  could  not  rest  till  I  had  brought  it  to 
you." 

"  You  come  from  Mr.  North's,  I  believe  ?  "  said 
the  inspector.  "  You  were  his  sister-in-law  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  sir ;  poor  man !  And  to  think 
that  he  should  have  such  frightful  communications 
as  this  sent  to  him,  and  should  keep  them  a  secret 
from  everybody  in  the  house,  when  his  own  wife's 
sister — but  it  is  just  like  him  !  He  was  so  thought- 
ful of  everybody  except  himself." 

She  had  already  excitedly  thrust  in  the  inspector's 
hand  an  envelope,  of  which  the  seal  was  broken. 

A  glance  showed  him  that  it  was  postmarked 
"  Boston,  May  10,"  of  ihis  same  year,  and  that  it 
was  without  any  distinctive  mark  to  betray  its 
authorship.  It  was  superscribed  in  a  feminine 
hand,"  Paul,  North,  Esq.,  Marlboro  Street,  Boston, 
Mass."  The  envelope  contained  a  sheet  of  com- 
mon notepaper,  on  which  was  written  in  the  same 
chirography  as  that  of  the  superscription,  the  fol- 
lowing: 

"  MY  DEAR  SIR. — Pardon  the  freedom  of  a  complete 
stranger,  but  believe  in  me  you  have  a  well-wisher.  It  is  I  who 
should  warn  you  against  trusting  fortune  or  character  in  the 
hands  of  Mr.  Albert  Runyon.  At  least  before  doing  so,  per- 
mit that  I  advise  you  to  investigate  the  history  of  his  past. 
He  is  a  serpent  in  the  grass,  who  has  ruined  systematically 


STA  CKHO  USE 'S  DANGERO  US  ENEM Y.      249 

everybody  who  in  him  confided,  and  will  ruin  you  in  the  same 
way.  I  beg  you  will  not  treat  this  warning  lightly,  for  if  you 
disregard  it  you  will  surely  come  to  grief  sooner  or  later,  and 
will  remember  when  it  is  too  late,  my  good  advice.  A  word  to 
the  wise  is  sufficient.  "A  FRIEND." 

The  inspector  read  this  letter  through  twice  very 
carefully  before  he  uttered  a  word.  Who  was 
Albert  Runyon  ? 

Mr.  Applebee  was  sure  that  he  had  never  heard 
the  name  before. 

"  Well,"  said  the  inspector,  "  you  did  very  right 
to  bring  this  to  me.  Where  did  you  find  it  ?  " 

Aunt  Comfort  explained  after  a  deal  of  circum- 
locution, which  it  is  unnecessary  to  reproduce,  that 
she  had  accidentally  come  across  it  in  examining 
some  papers  of  her  late  brother-in-law,  which  until 
recently  had  reposed  under  lock  and  key  in  his 
writing  desk  at  the  Marlboro  Street  house. 

The  inspector  quieted  her  agitation  by  assuring 
her  that  she  had  done  her  full  duty  in  immediately 
referring  this  matter  to  the  police,  and  that  they 
would  take  steps  to  investigate  it. 

As  soon  as  Miss  Harwood  had  gone,  the  inspec- 
tor showed  the  letter  to  his  chief. 

"  This  is  one  of  that  kind  of  matters  in  which  the 
newspapers  are  of  the  most  service,"  said  that 
potentate,  aftera  brief  reflection.  "  We  might  keep 
this  thing  in  our  possession  for  a  dog's  age,  and 
never  know  any  more  about  it  than  we  do  now. 
If,  however,  the  newspapers  publish  it  we  stand  an 
even  chance  of  hearing  something  about  this  Mr. 


250  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Runyon — if  the  clue  amounts  to  anything  at  all, 
which  is  doubtful.  By  the  way,  did  you  ask  the 
old  lady  if  she  had  ever  heard  of  any  person  of 
that  name  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  I  did,"  said  the  inspector,  "  and  she 
expresses  complete  ignorance.  I  think  I'll  make 
some  inquiries  of  Stackhouse  as  to  whether  there 
was  any  such  man  to  his  knowledge  associated  with 
North  in  business,  before  giving  the  thing  to  the 
newspapers." 

"  To  be  sure,"  said  the  inspector  ;  "  but  it's 
doubtful.  Apparently  North  attached  no  import- 
ance to  the  communication,  for  if  he  had  made  any 
talk  about  it,  we  should  have  heard  of  the  thing 
before." 

With  the  letter  in  his  pocket,  Inspector  Applebee 
set  out  at  once  in  quest  of  the  junior  partner. 

Inspector  Applebee,  however,  had  some  diffi- 
culty in  finding  Thornton  Stackhouse. 

The  fact  was  that  at  this  moment  he  was  engaged 
in  an  earnest  conference  with  Detective  John  Lamm 
at  the  latter's  office. 

"  I  have  come  to  you,  Mr.  Lamm,"  Mr.  Stack- 
house  had  said,  as  soon  as  Mr.  Lamm  had  closed 
the  door  of  the  inner  office,  "  for  the  purpose  of 
giving  you  a  little  information  with  reference  to 
personal  matters,  which  I  ought,  perhaps,  to  have 
mentioned  to  you  before." 

Stackhouse  looked  rather  perturbed,  and  re- 
frained from  meeting  the  steady  gaze  of  the  man 
whom  he  addressed. 


STA  CKHO USE  'S  DANGERO  US  ENEM  Y.      251 

"  I  trust,"  said  Lamm,  "  that  it  is  not  too  late 
now." 

"  No,"  rejoined  Stackhouse  nervously  ;  "  no,  it 
is  not  too  late  for  you  ;  for  me  it  may  be." 

There  was  something  despondently  apprehensive 
in  the  tones  of  the  man  as  he  said  these  words,  but 
overcoming  with  apparent  effort  his  tendency  to 
despair,  he  went  on  at  once  in  a  tone  of  forced 
briskness. 

"  Mr.  Lamm,  I  entrusted  you  in  the  first  place 
with  all  that  occurred  to  me  to  have  any  special  bear- 
ing upon  the  North  case,  when  I  engaged  you." 

The  detective's  raised  eyebrows  evidently  con- 
veyed his  surprise  at  this  statement,  for  Stackhouse 
went  on  immediately  :  "  Yes  ;  it  is  not  about  that, 
but  about  things  immediately  growing  out  of  it  that 
I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  now,  Mr.  Lamm  ;  in 
other  words  of  my  serious  domestic  troubles.  And, 
believe  me,  I  could  not  say  to  you  what  I  now  do 
if  I  did  not  know  that  I  am  speaking  to  a  trust- 
worthy man  in  absolute  confidence." 

Mr.  Lamm  made  an  appreciative  gesture. 

"The  truth  is,  sir,  that  I  am  utterly  unable  to 
account  for  the  extraordinary  conduct  of  my  wife. 
Up  to  the  day  of  this  murder,  sir,  since  the  time 
that  I  married  her,  Mr.  Lamm,  we  have  been  on 
the  best  of  terms — the  best  of  terms,"  he  repeated, 
reflectively,  as  if  half  losing  himself  in  dreamy 
reminiscence. 

"  And  since  ?  "  the  detective  insinuated. 

Mr.  Stackhouse's  reply  involved  a  substantially 


252  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

accurate  description  of  the  scene  which  had  fol- 
lowed his  arrival  at  home  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
iyth  of  June,  a  statement  which  it  may  naturally 
be  conceived  caused  the  detective  far  less  aston- 
ishment than  it  might  have  in  some  circumstances. 
But  John  Lamm  was  delighted  to  have  an  oppor- 
tunity to  discuss  this  matter  with  his  client. 

"  And  how  do  you  account  for  this  ?  "  he  queried. 

"  I  don't  account  for  it,"  answered  Stackhouse. 
"  I  cannot  account  for  it.  It  is  a  great  and-  fright- 
ful nightmare  ;  the  puzzle  of  my  whole  life.  Be- 
lieve me,  sir,  you  know  absolutely  as  much  about 
it  as  I  do." 

"  Still,"  suggested  Mr.  Lamm,  "you  might  have 
means  of  surmising  which  I  do  not  possess." 

"  Ah,  indeed,"  returned  Stackhouse,  "  and  if  it 
were  not  for  that  fact  I  should  not  have  come  here. 
Yes,  indeed,  I  do  have  means  of  surmising,  Mr. 
Lamm.  My  wife,  as  an  explanation  of  her  impos- 
sible conduct,  simply  uttered  a  name  which,  I  am 
sorry  to  say,  I  know  altogether  too  well — " 

"  The  name  was — ?" 

"  Marie  Moissot." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  detective.  "  A  curious  name  ; 
French  ?  " 

"No,  curse  her,"  returned  Stackhouse,  vindic- 
tively. "  She  was  a  Creole,  I  tell  you,  Lamm, 
and  a  jealous,  dangerous  woman.  I  knew  her 
years  ago,  but  certainly  had  almost  forgotten  her 
existence  until  this  day,  when  I  find  her  name  upon 
my  wife's  lips." 


STACKHOUSE  'S  DANGEROUS  ENEMY.      253 

"  Plainly,"  said  the  detective,  as  Stackhouse 
hesitated,  "  what  did  you  know  of  this  woman  ?  " 

Stackhouse  averted  his  eyes  and  drummed 
moodily  upon  the  desk  with  his  fingers  for  a  con- 
siderable space  without  replying. 

"  Mr.  Lamm,"  he  said  at  last,  "  the  Moissot  epi- 
sode in  my  experience  is  one  I  am  not  fond  of  call- 
ing to  mind.  I  met  the  girl  when  she  was  about 
sixteen  years  old — where  it  matters  not — I  thought 
I  was  fond  of  her — and  was  caught  in  the  snares  of 
her  pretty  face.  My  acquaintance  with  her  did  not 
last  long.  The  vindictive  temper  and  insane  jeal- 
ousy of  the  girl,  who  was  more  of  a  woman  than 
most  of  our  Northern  females  of  twice  her  age, 
warned  me  that  I  had  made  a  mistake." 

"  The  parting  was  not  voluntary  on  her  part  ? " 

Stackhouse  ground  his  teeth  ;  his  lips  were  dry 
and  feverish;  under  the  table  his  fists,  the  detective 
noticed,  were  clenched. 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Stackhouse.  "  That  would 
have  been  impossible." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  detective.     "  Unfortunate." 

"  Unfortunate  !  "  echoed  Stackhouse.  "  Good 
heavens,  man,  it  was  madness — insanity  !  " 

"  And — poor  policy,"  added  the  detective  sig- 
nificantly. "  But  bygones  are  irretrievable.  And 
so  it  is  this  woman  whom  you  suspect  to  have 
poisoned  your  wife's  mind  against  you  ?  Well,  sir, 
have  you  told  me  all  that  is  necessary  for  me  to 
know  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  else  of  the  past  that  concerns 


254  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

you  and  me,  Mr.  Lamm,"  said  Stackhouse.  ner- 
vously, wiping  the  perspiration  from  his  brow, 
"  Except  this.  Eight  years  ago  I  accidentally 
heard  that  Marie  Moissot  was  living  in  New  York 
under  another  name.  A  few  years  later  an  adven- 
turess blazed  into  notoriety  in  the  great  metropolis, 
under  the  name  of  Madame  Perle,  who  tallied  well 
with  the  description  of  this  Marie.  That  she  was 
the  same  person  I  am  unable  definitely  to  determine. 
I  have  only  seen  her  photograph.  I  did  not  investi- 
gate nearer." 

Detective  Lamm  was  becoming  hugely  interested. 

"  So,  so,"  he  exclaimed.  "  Well,  and  what  have 
you  done  ? " 

"  Done  ! "  echoed  Stackhouse,  giving  him  a 
startled  look. 

"  Yes,  I  mean  recently,  since  the  trouble  with 
your  wife — with  reference  to  obtaining  information 
concerning  this  woman." 

"  I'll  be  entirely  frank  with  you,"  said  Stack- 
house.  "  I  hesitated  about  making  anybody  a  con- 
fidant in  this  purely  personal  matter.  I  therefore 
inserted  an  advertisement  in  Monday  morning's 
papers,  offering  to  pay  for  information  of  this 
woman.  That  advertisement  was  answered,  and 
it  brought  me  to  a  house  in  Shawmut  Avenue,  where 
I  have  excellent  reasons  for  believing  that  this 
woman  has  been  ;  which  shows  conclusively  that 
my  surmises  in  regard  to  her  having  poisoned  my 
wife's  mind  in  person  were  correct.  But  my  efforts 
to  see  this  Marie  have  been  baffled  by  the  interven- 


STACKHOUSE  'S  DANGEROUS  ENEMY.      255 

tion  of  a  cunning  demon  in  petticoats  whom  she 
deputed  to  meet  me.  I  have  written  to  her,  but 
receiving  no  reply  am  obliged  to  place  the  matter 
in  your  hands.  Mr.  Lamm,  do  you  think  you  can 
help  me  ?" 

Nothing  could  conceal  the  intense  anxiety,  the 
almost  hungry  look  of  supplication  in  the  junior 
partner's  face. 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  detective  to  himself,  "  whatever 
this  man's  past  may  have  been,  one  thing  of  his 
present  life  is  eminently  plain.  He  loves  his  wife." 

"  And  you,  then,  don't  suspect,"  he  said  aloud, 
"  this  woman  of  complicity  in  the  murder  of  your 
partner  ? " 

"  I  suspect  her  of  nothing  that  is  good  and  every- 
thing that  is  bad,"  said  Stackhouse  bitterly.  "  I 
know  that  this  woman  hates  me  with  one  of  those 
hatreds  that  will  never  forget  nor  forgive.  Wher- 
ever I  am  so  long  as  she  lives,  I  am  in  danger. 
She  is  revengeful,  and,  more  than  all,  accomplished 
and  unscrupulous." 

"  Accomplished  ? "  repeated  Lamm  quickly. 
"  Do  you  use  that  word  intentionally,  Mr.  Stack- 
house  ?" 

"  I  certainly  do,"  replied  Thornton  Stackhouse. 
"  She  has  all  the  native  ability  of  a  naturally  shrewd 
and  cunning  woman,  who  has  lost  less  by  the 
neglect  of  her  education  in  letters  than  she  has 
gained  through  her  direct  contact  with  the  world." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Lamm,  drawing  a  full  breath, 
"  I  cannot  work  in  the  dark.  I  must  have  the 


256  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

fullest  possible  description  of  Marie  Moissot  at  the 
very  latest  hour  known  to  you." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Stackhouse  quickly,  "  I  knew 
that  and  came  prepared.  I  have  brought  you  the 
photograph  I  spoke  of.  It  was  obtained  for  me 
seven  years  ago  by  a  friend  of  mine — the  photo- 
graph of  Madame  Perle  !  All  I  can  say  of  it  is 
that  if  Madame  Perle  be  not  Marie  Moissot,  the 
resemblance  between  the  two  women  is  strange  and 
striking  indeed." 

John  Lamm  had  some  difficulty  to  conceal  his 
delight,  as  Thornton  Stackhouse  placed  upon  the 
table  before  his  eyes  the  counterfeit  presentiment 
of  the  object  of  Thornton  Stackhouse's  fears. 

There  was  no  question  about  it.  Madame  Perle 
was  Madame  Raymond  ! 

When  Thornton  Stackhouse  reissued  from  John 
Lamm's  den  the  efficient  custodians  who  kept  him 
constantly  under  surveillance  had  already  notified 
Inspector  Applebee  of  his  whereabouts.  Mr.  Stack- 
house  was  therefore  surprised  to  find  a  hand  laid 
lightly  upon  his  shoulder. 

"  One  thing,"  said  the  voice  of  the  inspector  in 
his  ear;  "just  one  thing,  Mr.  Stackhouse.  I  wont 
detain  you  a  moment.  Do  you  know,  or  have  you 
ever  known,  a  person  calling  himself  Albert  Run- 
yon  ?  " 

Stackhouse  staggered  and  steadied  himself  against 
the  building  for  support.  He  fairly  gasped  for 
breath. 


STACKHOUSE  'S  DANGEROUS  ENEMY.      257 

"  What's  the  matter  ? "  said  the  inspector,  with 
quick  suspicion. 

"  It  is  my  heart,"  said  Stackhouse  hurriedly.  "  A 
sudden  start  you  gave  me.  I  have  trouble  that  way. 
The  life  insurance  physicians  have  warned  me." 

"  Excuse  me,"  apologized  the  inspector.  "  I 
didn't  mean  to  startle  you.  The  object  of  my  in- 
quiry you  will  find  by  reading  this  letter,  which 
seems  to  have  been  sent  anonymously  to  your 
partner  about  six  weeks  ago." 

Stackhouse  took  the  letter  and  read  it,  and  at  the 
end  his  agitation  had  almost  vanished.  He  gave  it 
back,  coolly,  to  the  officer. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  help  you,"  he  said  ;  "  the 
man  is  an  utter  stranger  to  me." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

ASTONISHING    DISCLOSURES   OF    WILLARD    SMITH. 

MEANTIME  the  police  department  had  quietly 
made  an  important  arrest,  and  had  succeeded 
in  astonishing  themselves  more  than  their  prisoner. 

The  affair  had  begun  in  the  afternoon  of  Wednes- 
day at  the  hour  when  the  inebriated  blackmailer 
left  the  office  of  Richard  Fetridge,  and  while  John 
Lamm  was  demanding  an  explanation  from  the  dis- 
comfited millionaire. 

"  Your  name  is  Willard  Smith,"  said  a  muscular 
man  in  an  uncompromising  voice,  suddenly  step- 
ping in  front  of  the  man  whose  breath  smelt  of 
liquor  as  he  came  down  the  stairs  from  Richard 
Fetridge's  office.  There  was  no  interrogatory  in- 
flection in  the  sentence.  It  was  stated  as  a  quiet, 
matter-of-fact  announcement. 

"That's  my  name,"  returned  the  unsuspecting 
inebriate,  bristling  a  little  with  a  ludicrous  assump- 
tion of  offended  dignity.  "  And  what  of  it  ? " 

"  This  of  it,"  said  the  muscular  man  in  a  tone  of 
authority.  "  You're  under  arrest.  You  must  come 
with  me." 

The  suddenness  of  this  unexpected  announcement 
acted  like  a  dash  of  cold  water  in  the  face.  The 
258 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES.  259 

ex-clerk  of  North  <Sc  Stackhouse  lost  a  shade  of  his 
normal  color  and  took  a  staggering  step  backward. 

"  Me  !  Under  arrest !  "  he  exclaimed,  nearly 
sobered  by  the  ominous  situation.  "  There  must 
be  some  mistake.  I'm  not  drunk.  At  least  not 
drunk  enough  to  be  arrested  for  it.  And  besides  " — 
picking  up  a  little  courage  as  he  surveyed  his 
unwelcome  acquaintance — '*  you're  not  an  officer." 

The  muscular  man  turned  back  the  lapel  of  his 
coat  and  exhibited  his  badge. 

"  You  are  not  arrested  for  being  drunk,  my 
man  ;  and  you  know  that  very  well.  Now  come. 
Shall  I  put  on  the  twisters,  or  will  you  walk 
quietly  ?  " 

The  young  man  cast  a  hasty,  frightened  look 
about  him.  Two  other  men  in  citizen's  clothes? 
who  had  been  standing  in  the  corridor  looking 
quietly  on,  now  approached. 

"  And  these — these  fellows — are  they  officers, 
too  ?  " 

"Shouldn't  wonder,"  returned  the  muscular  man 
with  a  grim  smile.  "  Now  there's  no  need  of 
attracting  attention  and  making  a  hullabaloo  about 
it.  I'll  trouble  you  for  your  arm.  Glad  you're 
sensible.  Now  put  your  best  foot  forward.  March  !  " 

The  man  seemed  to  obey  mechanically.  He  was 
walking  out  of  the  building  arm  in  arm  with  the 
officer.  The  two  other  men  fell  quietly  into  step 
behind  them.  The  whole  affair  had  been  so  brief 
and  unobtrusive  that  it  had  not  even  attracted  a 
glance  of  inquiry  from  the  people  who  stood  about 


260  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

But  just  before  he  came  to  the  street  the  prisoner 
seemed  to  awake  from  his  stupefaction  and  ex- 
claimed, in  a  voice  suppliant  and  terrified  : 

"  For  heaven's  sake  tell  me  what  I  am  arrested 
for  ? " 

"  It's  not  my  place  to  tell  you  that,"  replied  his 
custodian  sternly.  "  I  am  instructed  to  take  you 
to  headquarters.  You'll  be  told  soon  enough  there, 
I  reckon." 

"  But  it's  all  a  mistake,  I  tell  you,"  whimpered 
the  prisoner,  who  seemed  to  be  woefully  lacking  in 
fortitude. 

"  That's  for  you  to  settle  with  the  inspectors.  I 
haven't  made  any  mistake,"  returned  the  custodian* 
And  the  little  group  passed  into  the  street. 

The  prisoner  made  no  physical  resistance,  though 
he  continued  to  remonstrate  verbally  till  he  reached 
the  grim  building  in  Pemberton  Square,  where  his 
fate  was  to  be  settled.  By  this  time  the  effects  of 
his  morning's  libations  seemed  to  have  left  him. 
He  was  haggard  and  apprehensive,  and  as  he  went 
up  the  steps  into  the  corridor,  he  trembled  like  a 
conscience-stricken  criminal  taken  in  the  act. 

He  was  led  on  through  a  room  filled  with  tables 
and  men  engaged  in  writing,  and  was  pushed  un- 
ceremoniously through  a  doorway  into  a  quiet  inner 
office,  where  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with 
Inspector  Applebee  and  his  chief.  The  man  who 
had  brought  him  closed  the  door. 

"  So  this  is  the  man  ?  "  said  Applebee,  surveying 
him  curiously. 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES.  261 

"  This  is  the  discharged  clerk,  Willard  Smith," 
said  the  officer. 

"  So  indeed  it  is.  I  should  recognize  him  by  his 
photograph.  Sergeant,  will  you  wait  outside  ?" 

The  man  who  had  conducted  Mr.  Smith  thither 
bowed  and  went  out.  Inspector  Applebee  locked 
the  door. 

"  Sit  down,  my  man,"  he  said,  facing  the  prisoner. 
Mr.  Smith  sank  into  a  chair. 

"  They  told  me—"  he  faltered,  "  these  fellows 
who  brought  me  here — that  I  was  arrested  ;  but 
they  wouldn't  say  what  for.  They  said  you'd  tell 
me." 

He  looked  eagerly  and  apprehensively  from  one 
grave  face  to  the  other.  After  regarding  him  criti- 
cally, Applebee  whispered  a  few  words  in  the  ear  of 
his  superior.  The  chief  nodded.  Both  regarded 
the  prisoner  sharply. 

"  Come,"  said  Applebee,  "  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it,  my  man,  if  you  want  the  law  to  let  you  off  easy. 
Now  is  your  time.  Don't  wait  till  it's  too  late. 
Out  with  it  !  " 

"  But  I  don't  know  who — what  you  mean,"  stam- 
mered the  man,  turning  very  pale  indeed.  "  If 
you'll  be  so  kind  as  to  say  what  I'm  arrested  for." 

"  Oh,  certainly,"  returned  the  inspector  ;  "  we'll 
oblige  you  to  that  extent.  You're  arrested  for 
murder." 

The  man  started  out  of  his  chair,  opening  his 
eyes  very  wide,  repeated  the  ominous  word,  and 
sank  back  airain. 


262  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Whose  ?  "  he  gasped.     "  Whose  murder  ?  " 

"  Paul  North." 

The  wretch  opened  his  mouth,  but  was  unable  to 
articulate.  He  sat  back  in  his  chair,  staring  help- 
lessly, and  clutching  at  the  clothing  about  his  neck 
as  if  he  found  it  too  tight  for  him.  The  charge 
seemed  to  have  produced  a  complete  collapse. 

"  It  is  now  or  never,"  whispered  the  chief  as 
Applebee  leaned  over  the  desk  to  obtain  possession 
of  a  document.  "  He'll  confess  if  he's  worked 
right." 

Inspector  Applebee  having  obtained  the  paper 
he  was  in  search  of,  unfolds  it.  It  is  the  anony- 
mous letter  demanding  $1000  from  Paul  North  and 
threatening  his  life  in  case  he  failed  to  comply  with 
the  imposed  conditions.  He  advances  toward  the 
prisoner,  holding  this  document  behind  him.  See- 
ing him  approach,  Willard  Smith  starts  into  a  half- 
erect  attitude. 

"For  Heaven's  sake,  explain  this!"  he  exclaims. 
"It  is  some  awful  joke  or  other.  I  kill  Paul 
North!  Why,  I -couldn't  kill  anybody. " 

And  indeed  his  appearance  at  this  moment  seems 
to  corroborate  the  statement. 

"Look  at  this,"  says  Inspector  Applebee,  sud- 
denly putting  the  letter  before  his  eyes.  "Did  you 
ever  see  that  before?" 

The  man  starts,  gasps,  and  seems  to  be  suffering 
under  a  severe  attack  of  fever  and  ague. 

"My  letter!"  he  chatters  in  a  voice  barely  audi- 
ble. "My  letter!  WTell,  what  next?" 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES.  263 

"Ah,"  said  the  inspector  to  his  chief,  "he  recog- 
nizes it  as  his  letter." 

"But — but — I  don't  understand  where  you  got — 
got  it,"  stammered  the  man,  with  more  the  appear- 
ance of  bewilderment  than  fear. 

"So?"  queried  the  inspector.  "Ah,  but  we 
have  got  it.  And  you  have  acknowledged  the 
authorship  of  it.  That's  the  main  point." 

"But  I  never  mailed  that  letter,"  exclaimed  the 
prisoner,  starting  up  wildly,  with  a  gleam  of  hope  in 
his  eyes.  "I  see  how  it  is.  Somebody  has  been 
playing  tricks  on  me." 

"You  never  mailed  it!"  repeated  the  inspector, 
incredulously.  "Then  who  did?" 

"I  wish  I  knew;   I  don't." 

"So?     Well,  then,  what  did  you  write  it  for?" 

"I  wrote  it  when  I  was  drunk — mad — crazy!" 
cried  the  prisoner  excitedly.  "I  never  could  have 
done  it  if  I  had  been  in  my  senses.  And  when 
I  came  out  of  it  I  missed  the  letter.  I  looked  every- 
where for  it.  I  thought  I  must  have  torn  it  up. 
But  as  I  see  it  is  here — you — somebody  must  have 
picked  it  up  and  mailed  it." 

"Oh,  there's  no  doubt  but  that  somebody  mailed 
it,"  returned  Applebee,  significantly. 

"Yes,  but  I  didn't.  I  take  my  solemn  oath  to 
it,  sir.  Unless — unless  I  was  too  drunk  to  know  it 
when  I  did  it.  And  besides — besides,"  he  con- 
tinued, eagerly,  as  a  new  thought  struck  him,  "I 
couldn't  very  well  have  killed  a  man  when  I  wasn't 
with  him,  could  I?  You'd  think  it  likely,  Mr.  Chief 


264  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

of  Police,  that  the  man  who  was  with  him  at  the 
time  of  his  death — " 

He  paused  abruptly  and  glanced  in  mute  appeal 
from  one  face  to  another. 

"Well?"  said  the  inspector,  sharply,  "go  on.  If 
you're  speaking  the  truth  you  don't  have  to  stop 
and  think." 

"No,"  said  the  man,  evidently  nerving  himself 
for  a  disagreeable  duty.  'No,  sir;  I  don't  have  to 
stop  and  think,  but  I  don't  like  to  accuse  a  man  of 
a  thing  like  this.  I  don't,  and  that's  the  truth." 

"Your  only  chance  is  in  prompt  and  full  confes- 
sion," said  the  chief  inspector.  "Tell  us  every- 
thing you  know." 

"Well,  then,  I  will,"  said  the  prisoner  with  the 
air  of  having  made  up  his  mind.  "I'll  tell  you  all 
about  it,  way  from  the  beginning." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  side  was  the 
more  anxious  at  this  point,  the  accusers  or  the 
accused.  There  was  this  marked  difference — the 
prisoner  let  his  anxiety  be  seen;  the  trained  faces 
of  the  inspectors  masked  their  emotions  completely. 
As  the  man  began  evidently  with  the  intention  of 
speaking  at  considerable  length,  the  chief  inspector 
nonchalantly  drew  a  block  of  paper  in  front  of  him, 
dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink,  and  prepared  to  take 
notes. 

"You  may  have  heard,  gentlemen,"  said  Willard 
Smith,  "how  I  came  to  take  to  drinking  heavily.  I 
was  a  clerk  for  North  &  Stackhouse,  doing  well, 
saving  all  I  could  scrape  together,  with  the  inten- 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES.  265 

tion  of  starting  in  for  myself  one  day.  I  and  my 
sister  had  got  together  some  $3000."  The  man 
paused  an  instant  and  seemed  to  be  recovering  from 
a  slight  tendency  to  choke.  Glancing  around  the 
room  and  then  at  his  clothes  hastily,  he  said,  "I 
wasn't  like  this  always,  you  know.  Well,  it's  a 
short  enough  story  and  common  enough.  I  was 
old  enough  to  have  known  better,  but  I  didn't. 
Everybody  was  investing,  and  I  caught  the  fever, 
and  put  all  my  money  into  Nicaragua  Midland 
stock.  I  had  hesitated  to  do  it  till  the  price  was 
up.  Well,  when  the  thing  turned  and  began  to 
go  down  I  held  on,  hoping  for  another  change, 
until — well,  there  was  nothing  to  hold  on  to. 
Meantime  my  sister,  who  had  worked  her  ringers  off 
to  lay  up  that  money,  got  to  worrying,  fell  sick  and 
died.  When  I  paid  the  funeral  expenses — .  But, 
pshaw!  you  gentlemen  are  not  interested  in  that. 
It's  quickly  said.  I  didn't  care  what  came,  and  I 
took  to  drinking  heavily.  One  morning  I  woke  up 
to  find  my  place  at  North  &  Stackhouse's  filled.  I 
wont  say  anything  against  Mr.  North.  He  treated 
me  as  well  as  he  could.  He  advised  me  not  to  in- 
vest when  I  did,  and  several  times  when  I  wanted 
money  after  my  discharge  I  went  to  him  and  he 
gave  it  to  me.  So  that's  all  there  was  about  it. 
But  sometimes  when  I  was  drunk,  I  would  get  to 
feeling  pretty  sore  against  the  firm,  and  it  was  at 
one  of  those  times  that  I  wrote  that  letter  you  have 
there. 

"How  long  ago?" 


266  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"Oh,  that  must  have  been  three  weeks  ago. 
And  then,  as  I  tell  you,  when  I  sobered  off  again  I 
began  to  be  frightened,  and  looked  for  the  letter  to 
destroy  it,  but  I  couldn't  find  it.  I  thought  per- 
haps I  had  torn  it  up,  though  I  couldn't  remem- 
ber it.  Well,  then,  to  come  down  to  the  night  Mr. 
North  was  killed.  I  was  coming  across  the  Public 
Garden  with  a  friend  of  mine." 

"A  friend?"  asked  the  inspector,  sharply. 
"Name  and  address,  please." 

"The  name,"  said  the  prisoner,  a  blush  rising 
into  his  pale  face,  "is  Dick  Hunt;  his  address — 
any  place  where  liquor  is  sold  and  he  admitted ;  at 
other  times,  Deer  Island.  He's  not  an  acquaint- 
ance to  be  proud  of,  I'll  admit,  but,  gentlemen, 
I'm  telling  the  whole  truth.  We  were  both  of  us 
with  sufficient  taste  in  our  mouths  to  be  crazy  for 
more,  but  we  had  neither  money  nor  credit.  So 
when  I  saw  Paul  North  and  Richard  Fetridge  ahead 
of  us,  I  dogged  their  steps." 

"What  time  was  this?"  the  inspector  asked 
quickly. 

"Somewhere  after  seven  o'clock.  I  can't  say 
how  much  after,  but  a  little  after.  And  I  says  to 
this  fellow  with  me,  'Dick,  you  see  that  old  duffer 
there?  He  was  once  the  head  of  my  place  of  busi- 
ness. If  I  can  strike  him  right,  I'll  get  a  fiver  out 
of  him  and  we'll  make  a  night  of  it.'  Well,  of 
course,  that  was  agreeable.  But  I  was  sober  enough 
to  see  that  if  I  walked  up  to  the  old  man  when  he 
had  company  with  him  he  would  like  as  not  get 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES.  267 

mad.  So  I  waited  for  him  to  get  rid  of  Fetridge. 
We  followed  them  then  down  to  Marlboro  Street, 
and  saw  the  two  men  go  into  North's  house.  Not 
more  than  three  minutes  after  this,  a  stylish  dressed 
woman,  who  had  been  following  down  on  the  other 
sidewalk,  crossed  over  and  rang  the  bell.  And  she 
went  in  too." 

The  chief  inspector  dropped  his  pen  with  a  start. 

"Be  careful  what  you  say,"  said  the  inspector  in 
a  warning  tone;  "if  you  are  lying  it  will  be  used 
against  you." 

"Good  Heavens!  I  feel  as  if  I  was  on  trial  for 
my  life  now!"  exclaimed  the  prisoner.  "It's  gos- 
pel truth,  gentlemen,  every  word  of  it,  as  I  hope  for 
mercy  hereafter." 

"These  three  people  went  into  the  house,  and 
you  stood  watching  in  front  of  it?" 

"Just  the  truth,  sir.  And  we  waited  and  waited, 
walking  up  and  down,  for  we  wanted  the  money 
bad,  and  I  was  pretty  sure  I  could  get  it  from  Mr. 
North.  I  had  tried  it  before,  you  see.  But  I  knew 
him  too  well  to  disturb  him  when  he  was  busy;  and 
I  thought  he  was  busy — perhaps  selling  the  house 
to  Fetridge.  We  came  pretty  near  giving  it  up, 
but  at  last  we  saw  the  woman  come  out  and  start 
up  street." 

"So  indeed!"  exclaimed  Applebee,  greatly  per- 
turbed. "What  time  was  that?" 

"It  was  not  quite  nine,  b:it  must  have  been  very 
near  it.  I  remember  hearing  the  bell  strike  after- 
wards, and  not  a  great  many  minutes  afterwards, 
either." 


268  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"How  near  did  she  pass  you?" 

"Near  enough  for  me  to  see  her;  for  at  that  min- 
ute I  stood  directly  at  the  foot  of  the  steps." 

"Did  you  recognize  her?" 

"No;  for  she  was  a  stranger  to  me." 

"Be  particular  now.  Are  you  acquainted  with 
North's  two  daughters" 

"I  know  them  by  sight,  sir." 

"And  this  woman  was  not  the  younger  one?" 

"She  was  not  either  of  them.  Nothing  like  them, 
sir.  Not  in  the  least — anything  about  her." 

"Can't  you  describe  her?" 

But  Willard  Smith's  impressions  were  not  suffi- 
ciently vivid  to  enable  him  to  present  a  photo- 
graphic likeness. 

"Go  on,  then,"  said  the  inspector.  "What  hap* 
pened  next?" 

"Why,  you  see,  sir,  this  Mr.  Fetridge  was  directly 
behind  her,  and  when  he  came  down  the  steps  I 
was  tired  of  waiting.  So  I  put  a  bold  face  on  it 
and  touched  him  on  the  shoulder." 

"You  spoke  to  him  then?" 

"To  be  sure  I  did.  I  pretended  to  call  him 
North  by  mistake,  and  then  affecting  to  discover 
my  error  I  told  Mr.  Fetridge  what  I  was  going  to 
ask  Mr.  North.  If  he  couldn't  help  a  poor  fellow 
out  by  lending  him  five  dollars.  He  stopped  short, 
gave  me  one  look  that  took  me  all  in,  and,  says  he, 
'Good  heavens,  Smith!  Are  you  reduced  to  this? 
I — I'm  sorry  for  you' — just  like  that,  and  put  the 
money  in  my  hand." 

"What  was  his  appearance — his  manner?"  ques- 


ASTONISHING  DISCLOSURES  269 

tioned  the  chief.  "Was  it  unusual?  Did  he  show 
any  sign  of  excitement?" 

"I  thought  he  was  a  little  excited,  sir,  when  I 
first  touched  him  he  jumped  so ;  but  I  was  in  too 
much  of  a  hurry  to  be  off  with  my  money  to  stop 
long  after  he  gave  it  to  me." 

"Then  you  didn't  stay  long  enough  to  see  any- 
thing more?" 

"I  stayed  long  enough  to  see  him  go  up  street 
with  the  woman.  Nothing  else." 

"And  you  saw  nobody  else  go  out  or  come  in 
while  you  were  there?" 

"I  did  not." 

"Think  now.     Wasn't  there  another  woman?" 

"There  was  not,"  answered  the  prisoner,  posi- 
tively. "Both  of  us  were  watching  all  the  time. 
Nobody  else  went  out  or  came  in  during  the  whole 
time.  I  can  swear  to  it." 

"Well,  then,"  said  the  chief  sternly,  "why  didn't 
you  come  to  the  police  with  the  story  when  you  first 
heard  of  the  murder?" 

"Because  I  went  to  see  Mr.  Fetridge  about  it, 
and  he  told  me  not  to — he — he  gave  me  money  not 
to.  At  least — well,  the  first  time  he  said  'Don't  do 
it,'  and  then  asked,  kind  of  insinuating:  'Aren't 
you  in  need  of  money?'  Of  course  I  said  yes,  and 
then  he  gave  me  ten  dollars." 

The  inspectors  exchanged  glances  of  astonish- 
ment. 

"And — and  afterwards."  resumed  the  man  after 
a  brief  hesitation,  "when  I  had  drunk  up  this 
money,  I  went  to  him  and — and  demanded  more." 


27°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"Demanded!"  echoed  Applebee.     "And  he — " 

"Gave  it  to  me." 

The  inspector  looked  incredulous.  The  pris- 
oner's trembling  fingers  wandered  to  a  pocket  of  his 
vest.  He  produced  a  crisp  new  ten-dollar  bill. 
"Here  it  is,"  he  affirmed.  "They  arrested  me 
just  as  I  was  coming  away." 

Applebee  turned  to  the  chief  and  began  a  hurried 
conversation  in  whispers.  The  miserable  fellow  in 
the  chair  opposite  them  watched  them  with  eyes  of 
awful  apprehension. 

Suddenly  Applebee  turned  to  him  again. 

"One  question,  my  man.  Where  did  you  pass 
the  remainder  of  the  night?" 

The  man  mentioned  several  places  and  the  names 
of  several  individuals. 

"Well,  my  man,"  said  the  inspector,  "you'll  have 
to  go  to  jail  for  a  time ;  but  I  hope  it  may  be  short. 
We'll  do  what  we  can  for  you  if  we  find  you've  told 
us  the  truth.  You  understand.  We  meant  what 
we  said  when  we  advised  you  to  confess." 

For  circumstances  had  suddenly  changed  this  man 
from  a  prospective  defendant  in  a  murder  trial  to  a 
possible  government  witness  of  prime  importance. 

As  Willard  Smith,  dejected  and  ashamed,  was  led 
away  between  the  officers  who  came  to  conduct  him 
to  jail  the  chief  inspector  was  saying,  in  an  excited 
undertone,  to  Inspector  Applebee — 

"Money  or  no  money,  it  will  make  no  difference. 
If  I  get  these  men  to  corroborate  this  fellow's  story, 
I'll  arrest  Richard  Fetridge  without  an  hour's  de- 
lay " 


CHAPTER  XXT. 

THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT. 

TT7ITHOUT  denying  that  the  press,  in  these 
VV  days  of  sharp  news  competition,  occasionally 
clogs  the  wheels  of  justice  in  the  effort  to  supply 
the  public  with  the  latest  news  in  great  criminal 
affairs  (in  little  ones,  where  the  interest  is  not  great, 
there  is  little  fault  to  be  found),  it  must  none  the 
less  be  said  that  in  most  cases  the  extreme  publicity 
given  to  the  details  becomes  in  itself  a  mighty  en- 
gine of  detection.  Possessed  of  all  the  facts,  the 
entire  public  is  resolved  into  a  detective  force.  The 
salient  points  of  the  case,  which  in  other  countries 
are  kept  profoundly  secret  among  a  few  men,  are 
in  everybody's  mouth.  The  people  are  made  famil- 
iar with  the  appearance,  the  histories,  the  peculiar 
facts  in  the  lives  of  the  victim,  and  of  those  sus- 
pected of  complicity  in  the  crime.  The  result  is 
that  a  few  hours  after  the  publication  of  the  impor- 
tant details  of  a  mysterious  crime  people  begin  to 
flock  to  the  offices  of  the  great  newspapers,  eager  to 
contribute  the  mite  of  information  which  they  pos- 
sess. As  time  goes  on,  and  the  facts  gain  a  wider 
and  wider  circulation,  even  that  ever-lessening  circle 
which  poverty,  ignorance,  or  stupidity  isolates  from 
271 


z?2  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

the  fountain-head  of  general  information,  the  news- 
paper, is  reached,  and  if  there  is  any  suspicious  fact 
known  to  any  disinterested  person  in  the  community 
it  is  more  than  likely  to  be  brought  to  light  through 
the  same  peculiar  channel. 

The  North  case  was  certainly  not  an  anomaly  in 
this  respect.  North  &  Stackhouse  were  too  well 
known  through  their  dealings  with  the  public  not  to 
have  left  all  sorts  of  "  clues  "  and  suspicious  circum- 
stances in  the  past,  which  were  sure  to  come  out  as 
soon  as  the  dreadful  crime  set  everybody  talking 
about  them.  To  Thomas  were  referred  daily 
several  people  who  came  to  the  Globe  office  for  the 
purpose  of  affording,  through  that  journal,  some 
assistance  in  carrying  on  the  important  investiga- 
tion, which,  though  as  yet  so  little  successful,  had 
set  everybody  agog  with  wonder.  From  these  peo- 
ple the  reporter  learned  that  North  and  Stackhouse 
had  many  enemies,  more  or  less  bitter  and  personal, 
rising  from  their  questionable  business  transactions: 
but  there  was  nothing  which  impressed  him  as  suf- 
ficiently promising  to  be  important  until  the  morn- 
ing of  Saturday,  June  25,  a  gentleman  called  who 
related  a  little  circumstance  which  seemed  to  him 
pregnant  with  possible  significance.  It  certainly 
lacked  no  element  of  romantic  and  mysterious 
interest. 

It  was  an  episode  in  a  Boston  broker's  office  in 
which  a  very  pretty  woman  figured.  The  man 
could  not  recall  all  the  details,  but  he  recollected 
that  this  woman  had  preceded  him  in  the  occupancy 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT.  2  73 

of  an  inner  office,  and  that  while  he  was  waiting  for 
her  to  come  out  he  heard  scraps  of  a  very  animated 
conversation  of  which  North  &  Stackhouse  were 
the  subject.  In  the  partition  between  the  outer  and 
inner  office  were  a  series  of  large  windows,  which 
were  generally  in  various  degrees  of  openness. 
As  he  stood  with  his  back  against  the  partition,  the 
narrator  could  not  well  avoid  hearing  the  conversa- 
tion between  the  broker  and  his  fair  client,  and 
after  the  glimpse  he  had  caught  of  the  latter  his 
curiosity  was  considerably  aroused.  The  broker 
seemed  to  have  been  defending  the  reputation  of 
North  &  Stackhouse,  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
necessary  to  expect  just  such  phenomena  in  the 
stock  market,  but  the  woman,  who  seemed  to  have 
been  a  heavy  loser  in  the  Nicaragua  Midland,  was 
unsparing  in  her  denunciations  of  the  firm,  which 
she  delivered  in  not  especially  choice  English  with 
a  slight  foreign  accent,  but  in  the  bitterest  and 
most  vindictive  tone  imaginable. 

"  Hush  ! "  said  the  broker  suddenly  ;  "  there  is 
Mr.  Stackhouse  now."  And  sure  enough  the  junior 
partner  of  the  aforesaid  firm  was  crossing  the  office 
at  that  minute.  Immediately  there  was  a  suppresed 
scream,  followed  by  a  rustle  of  silk,  and  the  door 
between  the  inner  and  outer  offices  closed  with  a 
violence  that  caused  the  listener  to  rebound  from 
the  partition.  The  clerks  looked  up  from  their 
writing.  Stackhouse  himself  appeared  slightly 
startled,  but  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry  and  trans- 
acted his  business  and  hastened  out  in  a  short  space 


274  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

of  time.  Meanwhile  in  the  inner  office  the  broker 
was  addressing  his  client  in  tones  of  solicitous 
alarm.  What  was  the  matter  ? 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  that  man  was 
this  Mr.  Stackhouse  of  North  &  Stackhouse  ? " 
the  woman  said  hurriedly. 

"  To  be  sure  he  is,"  answered  the  broker. 

"  And  it  is  to  that  man  that  I  was  entrusting  my 
money  ?" 

There  was  such  a  dangerous  inflection  in  the 
woman's  voice  that  the  broker  was  apparently  sur- 
prised into  silence,  and  immediately  she  broke  out 
in  the  most  violent  imprecations  and  epithets  which 
the  listener  had  ever  heard  pass  a  woman's  lips. 

"  Why,"  said  the  narrator  to  the  reporter,  "  I 
felt  as  if  I  were  standing  outside  a  cage  watching  a 
mad  tigress  expending  her  strength  on  the  iron 
bars.  I  didn't  know  what  she  could  have  against 
Thornton  Stackhouse,  but  I  thought  I  would  rather 
be  in  any  position  than  in  that  man's  shoes  with 
such  a  woman  in  his  wake.  But  as  it  was  none  of 
my  business,  I  ceased  to  trouble  myself  about  it." 

This  was  the  extent  of  the  informant's  observa- 
tion. He  was  buttonholed  by  a  business  acquain- 
tance at  that  minute,  and  heard  and  saw  no  more 
except  that  the  woman  shortly  afterward  went 
out,  and  that  her  passion  had  left  her  very  pale  for 
one  of  her  complexion.  That  this  episode  might 
be  of  value  had  not  occurred  to  him  till  he  had 
read  an  article  in  that  morning's  Globe  suggesting 
a  conspiracy  against  Stackhouse  ;  but  he  desired  to 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT.  275 

give  the  information  in  strict  confidence,  as  he  did 
not  care  to  be  placed  in  the  light  of  an  eavesdrop- 
per before  his  business  associates.  Mr.  Thomas 
assured  him  that  he  might  rest  easy  on  that  score, 
and  hastened  to  follow  up  the  new  clue. 

It  was  with  a  glow  of  genuine  excitement  that 
after  an  hour's  interview  with  the  broker,  in  whose 
office  this  episode  had  occurred,  Mr.  Thomas  has- 
tened to  the  office  of  John  Lamm. 

He  met  the  detective  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs, 
and  they  went  up  together.  The  outer  office  was 
occupied,  and  Lamm  led  the  way  to  his  den. 
Scarcely  a  word  had  been  interchanged.  Both 
men  were  eager  to  speak. 

"I've  got  something  that  will  surprise  you,"  said 
Thomas,  "  so  prepare  to  sponge  out  a  few  of  the 
figures  on  your  slate  and  begin  on  a  new  scent." 

"  Yes  ? " 

"You  have  had  your  say  about  Marion  Stack- 
house.  Now,  I  simply  want  to  show  you  that  there 
are  others  who  have  shown  themselves  to  be  more 
vindictive  enemies  of  her  husband  than  she  has.  I 
bring  you  a  new  name." 

"  Not  the  Albert  Runyon  which  appears  in  the 
anonymous  letter  to  North  which  you  published 
yesterday  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  something  more  tangible  than  that. 
Madame  Raymond." 

Thomas  had  expected  Lamm  to  present  a  face 
of  deep  professional  interest,  but  to  his  chagrin  the 
detective  actually  laughed. 


276  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,  my  friend,  that  you 
have  just  heard  of  her  ?  Why,  I've  been  working 
on  her  for  days  !  " 

Thomas  stared. 

"  Then  you  don't  care  to  hear  what  I  have  dis- 
covered ?  " 

"  By  all  means,"  said  Lamm,  regaining  his 
seriousness.  "  It  may  be  just  what  I  need  to  round 
out  the  facts  already  in  my  possession." 

The  reporter  began  his  story.  He  first  told 
what  his  voluntary  informant  had  told  him,  and 
then  of  his  visit  to  the  broker.  It  appeared  that 
the  latter  had  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  episode 
in  his  office,  though  he  professed  to  attach  no 
importance  to  it,  to  see  no  connection  between  it 
and  subsequent  events.  To  be  sure  the  woman 
had  acted  unaccountably  strange ;  but  weren't 
women  always  doing  something  that  no  man  would 
ever  think  of  ?  However,  the  broker  was  willing 
to  give  the  reporter  every  possible  aid.  The 
woman's  name  was  Mme.  Marie  Raymond,  and  she 
had  been  a  customer  in  stocks  for  some  two  years. 
She  was  a  New  York  woman,  and  had  been  re- 
markably lucky  in  all  her  experiments  except  the 
bubble  Nicaragua  Midland.  To  the  fact  of  her 
losses  the  broker  wholly  atrributed  her  conduct  on 
the  occasion  in  question,  which  had  been  about  six 
weeks  previous.  She  was  not  the  person  to  bear 
any  defeat  with  equanimity. 

"  And  now,"  said  John  Lamm,  "  when  does  he 
say  he  was  last  visited  by  this  woman  ? " 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT.  277 

"  Not  since  that  occasion.  All  her  business  had 
been  done  by  mail,  postmarked  New  York." 

"Umha!  And  did  he  mention  that  he  sent  her 
to  Richard  Fetridge  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  he  did,  Thomas,  unwittingly  ;  and  as 
sure  as  you  are  sitting  in  that  chair  you  have  just 
related  to  me  the  initial  scene  of  the  tragedy  in 
Paul  North's  house." 

Thomas  stared  at  his  friend,  the  detective,  to 
assure  himself  that  he  was  in  earnest  and  in  his 
right  mind.  But  there  could  be  no  doubt  on  either 
point. 

"  And  then,"  said  the  reporter  eagerly,  "  you 
give  up  the  idea  that  Marion  Stackhouse  originated 
the  conspiracy  ? " 

"  Well,"  returned  Lamm,  "  I  give  up  very  little. 
My  opinions  have  been  enlarged  and  modified  to 
suit  the  new  facts — not  changed.  However,  it's 
not  theories  you  want  now,  but  facts.  Let  me  give 
you  an  idea  of  what  work  I  have  been  doing  since 
our  last  conference." 

The  detective  took  out  his  notebook,  opened  it 
upon  his  knee,  and  referred  to  his  hieroglyphics. 

"Yes,  Mr.  Thomas,  your  broker  quite  unwit- 
tingly sent  Madame  Raymond,  alias  Madame  Perle, 
and  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Marie  Moissot,  Creole,  born 
in  New  Orleans,  twenty-seven  years  ago,  to  Rich- 
ard Fetridge.  Her  conference  with  the  broker  was 
May  10.  Her  appearance  in  Richard  Fetridge's 
office  was  May  n.  £rgo,  Mr.  Broker-man  must 


278  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

have  casually  mentioned  it  as  reported  in  the  street 
that  North  &  Stackhouse  are  all  right  because 
backed  by  Richard  Fetridge." 

Thomas  marveled  at  the  apparent  accuracy  of 
his  friend's  statements. 

"  In  the  name  of  wonder,  where  have  you  been 
the  past  forty-eight  hours  ? "  he  asked. 

"  My  sources  of  information  are  confidential  but 
reliable,"  said  the  detective.  "  The  almighty  dollar 
will  sometimes  open  the  mouth  of  the  confidential 
servant  that  is,  while  the  confidential  servant  that 
was,  if  he  is  approached  properly,  is  ever  ready  to 
get  his  old  master  into  a  scrape.  And,  besides  that, 
I  have  received  the  confessions  of  a  gentleman  who 
shall  be  nameless,  whose  means  of  judgment  are 
unexceptional." 

"  I  understand  dimly,  but  enough.  Never  mind 
the  how  ;  let's  have  the  what." 

"At  once,  my  boy.  The  nth  of  last  May, 
Madame  Raymond  visited  Richard  Fetridge  for 
the  first  time.  When  she  came  in  at  the  door  he 
looked  upon  an  entire  stranger.  She  came  openly 
to  discover  the  exact  standing  of  North  &  Stack- 
house  as  a  firm,  and  of  North  and  Stackhouse  as 
individuals.  In  the  midst  of  their  conference  about 
Stackhouse,  the  woman  began  to  talk  in  a  loud 
voice,  uttering  such  sentences  as  these  :  'Thornton 
Stackhouse  must  go  to  the  wall,  my  friend,  wife  or 
no  wife  !  He  shant  escape  me,  now  that  I  know 
him  !  The  man  I  have  been  turning  heaven  and 
earth  to  find  !  I  shall  denounce  him,  ruin  him — 


,       THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT.  279 

make  him  feel  the  same  degradation  of  social  scorn 
that  he  has  made  others  feel.'  Thereupon  Mr. 
Fetridge,  observing  that  this  extraordinary  speech 
had  attracted  the  attention  of  his  clerk,  who  has  for- 
gotten himself  so  far  as  to  stare  at  the  woman  with 
his  mouth  open,  hustles  his  mysterious  visitor  with 
mysterious  haste  into  his  inner  office,  and  not  only 
closes  the  door,  but  locks  it.  The  conference  lasted 
fully  two  hours.  Fetridge  came  out  once  or  twice 
to  dismiss  some  visitor  or  other,  and  the  change  in 
his  color  and  manner  was  so  marked  that  the  clerk 
was  greatly  impressed.  So  much  so,  in  fact,  that 
he  began  to  wonder  and  to  watch  for  madame's 
return." 

"  It  is  plain  where  you  got  your  information, 
Lamm.  But  go  on.  His  secret  is  as  safe  with 
both  of  us  as  with  one." 

"  Did  I  not  know  that,  Mr.  Kingman  F.  Thomas, 
this  offensive  and  defensive  alliance  of  ours  would 
never  have  been  formed.  Well,  the  clerk  waited 
some  days  in  vain  for  the  return  of  the  madame. 
But  he  avows  on  his  honor  that  he  never  met  a  man 
so  systematically  irritable,  abstracted,  and  nervous 
as  was  Richard  Fetridge  during  the  interim.  Fi- 
nally, on  the  i4th  of  last  month,  Madame  Raymond 
visited  the  office  a  second  time.  On  this  occasion 
our  friend  Fetridge  received  her  eagerly,  and  bade 
his  clerk  inform  all  callers  that  he  was  out.  They 
retired  to  the  inner  office.  The  clerk  could  not 
restrain  his  curiosity,  and  he  attempted  to  satisfy  it 
by  applying  both  eye  and  ear  to  the  keyhole.  The 


28o  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

door  was  opened  upon  him  suddenly,  and  his  atti- 
tude and  confusion  were  considered  by  Richard 
Fetridge  good  grounds  for  his  peremptory  dis- 
charge. 

"  His  unfortunate  effort  had  only  put  him  into 
possession  of  the  following  statement  from  the  lips 
of  the  woman  ;  and  you  can  easily  imagine  that  it 
meant  worse  than  nothing  to  him  : 

" '  Mr.  Fetridge,  you  and  I  understand  each 
other,  then.  You  will  go  to  New  Orleans  :  thence 
to  Montreal.  You  will  then  find  out  that  every 
word  I  have  told  you  is  the  truth.  When  you 
return,  you  will  meet  me  in  New  York.  I  will 
come  to  Boston  with  you,  and  we  will  act  together.'  " 

"  Whew  ! "  ejaculated  Thomas,  whose  eyes 
gleamed  with  excitement.  "This  is  most  extra- 
ordinary." 

"  Then  what  will  you  say  to  the  sequel,  my  boy  ? 
Within  two  days  Richard  Fetridge  had  started  upon 
that  mysterious  month's  absence  about  which  we 
were  curious  a  while  ago.  You  can  easily  under- 
stand now  why  he  was  so  long  gone.  New  Orleans 
and  Montreal  are  a  long  distance  apart,  and  the 
events  which  he  wished  to  verify  happened  more 
than  ten  years  ago." 

"  And  what  events  do  you  suppose  them  to  be  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  moral  doubt  about  the  matter.  He 
was  investigating  the  history  of  the  junior  partner 
of  North  &  Stackhouse,  the  man  whom  you  your- 
self once  said  to  me  had  no  past." 

"The  affair  grows  complicated,"  said  Thomas. 


THE  HEAD  OF  THE  SERPENT.  281 

"  But  I  can  dimly  see  a  light  ahead,  I  fancy.  Go 
on." 

"There  is  little  more  to  be  said.  But  that  little 
is  much.  Richard  Fetridge  and  Mme.  Raymond 
reached  Boston  on  the  same  day,  June  14,  Tues- 
day night. 

"  Until  Thursday  evening  the  woman  remained 
in  her  room.  That  night  she  went  out,  and  was 
brought  home  by  Richard  Fetridge — " 

The  detective  hesitated. 

"  At  what  time  ? "  demanded  the  reporter, 
eagerly. 

"  Well,  sir,"  answered  John  Lamm  impressively, 
"  unless  my  landlady  has  misinformed  me,  it  must 
have  been  about  half  an  hour  subsequent  to  the 
murder  of  Paul  North." 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE     MEDEA     WEEPS! 

A  DOUBLE  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  the 
1\  conference  at  this  moment.  John  Lamm's 
assistant,  admitted,  whispered  a  few  words  in  the 
detective's  ear. 

"  Bring  her  in,"  said  Lamm  aloud.  As  the  man 
passed  out,  the  detective  tipped  Thomas  a  wink. 

"  It's  my  little  amateur  detective  at  North's,"  he 
murmured. 

Immediately  a  spruce  and  bright-eyed  brunette, 
very  tastily  dressed,  crossed  the  threshold,  with  a 
bright  smile  for  her  employer  ;  but  when  she  saw 
Thomas  she  hesitated  and  drew  back. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  right.  Don't  be  afraid.  It's  only 
my  partner,"  said  Lamm  reassuringly.  He  intro- 
duced her  to  Mr.  Thomas,  closed  the  door,  and 
gave  her  a  chair. 

"  Don't  be  afraid  to  speak  out,"  he  said  kindly. 
"  You're  among  friends." 

"  I'm  afraid  all  but  to  death,"  said  the  girl,  who 
was  evidently  excited.  "  If  this  thing  should  ever 
come  out  about  me  !  Not  that  I  care  for  my  pre- 
sent place.  I'd  have  given  notice  last  week  if  it 
hadn't  been  for  you,  Mr.  Lamm." 
282 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  283 

"  Now,  don't  go  to  worrying,  my  girl.  Your  ser- 
vices to  the  cause  of  justice  will  not  only  be  re- 
warded here,  but  hereafter,  as  I  have  always  told 
you.  Now  I  see  you  have  something  to  tell  me. 
What  is  it  ?  " 

"  Gracious  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  "  I'm  all  in  a 
fluster.  Better  ask  me  what  it  isn't.  There's  so 
much,  I  couldn't  write  it.  I  didn't  dare  to.  I — I'm 
a  thief.  What  do  you  think  I've  done  ?  Stolen  a 
letter." 

The  girl  announced  this  with  a  half-triumphant, 
half-frightened  air,  and  looked  quickly  from  face  to 
face,  to  see  whether  her  conduct  was  considered 
exemplary. 

"  Oh,  you're  getting  on,"  said  Lamm,  repressing 
a  tendency  to  smile.  "  You'll  be  way  up  in  the  pro- 
fession in  a  short  time." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  done  it,"  said  the  girl,  flashing 
a  gratefulglance  toward  her  employer,  "  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  one  thing.  My  brother  John  wrote  me 
yesterday  that  he  had  got  that  nice  place  you  pro- 
mised me  to  get  him.  And  them  as  remembers  me, 
why,  I  remembers  them." 

And  without  further  ado,  the  maid  searched  in 
the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and  produced  an  envelope. 

"  The  lady  went  out  last  night,  and  while  she  was 
gone  I  went  through  her  writing  desk.  I  didn't 
have  time  to  do  all  I'd  liked  to.  I  was  too  scared. 
But  this  was  put  all  by  itself  in  a  little  drawer,  and 
I  thought  by  the  way  it  read  it  might  be  useful." 

The  detective  took  the  letter  with  an  indifferent 


284  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

air  ;  but  the  moment  he  began  to  read  it  his  face 
changed  color.  Actually,  Thomas  did  not  believe 
that  John  Lamm  would  betray  so  much  agitation. 
But  his  own  turn  was  coming.  Without  a  word  of 
comment,  Mr.  Lamm  thrust  the  open  letter  into  his 
friend's  hand. 

And  this  was  what  Thomas  saw  : 

"  BOSTON,  June  16,  1887. 

"  MY  DEAR  MADAM. — Mr.  Richard  Fetridge  and  Mr.  North, 
your  father,  are  to  have  secretly  a  conference  at  the  Boston 
House.  Marlboro  Street,  after  dinner  to-night.  The  subject 
to  be  discussed  is  your  husband.  They  will  try  to  keep  from 
you  the  object.  If,  now,  you  are  a  wise  woman,  and  value 
your  reputation  and  your  happiness  in  the  future,  you  will  not 
hesitate  to  secrete  yourself  in  that  house  to  them  unknown, 
before  seven  o'clock.  You  may  then  hear  all,  and  govern  your- 
self therewith.  Breathe  a  word  of  this  confidential  communi- 
cation to  anybody,  and  all  your  chances  you  will  destroy  of 
knowing  that  you  are  deceived,  outraged,  shamefully  victimized, 
by  those  who  should  protect  you  best. 

Believe  me  a  woman,  dear  madam,  who  sympathizes  with 
you,  and  your 

"  FRIEND  AND  WELL  WISHER." 

Without  a  word  Thomas  hastened  to  open  his 
pocket-book,  and  to  produce  a  second  letter,  which 
had  been  loaned  him  by  Inspector  Applebee  for 
publication  in  the  Globe.  It  was  the  anonymous 
missive  denouncing  Albert  Runyon  to  Paul  North. 

Thomas  laid  the  two  epistles  side  by  side  and 
triumphantly  thrust  them  under  Mr.  Lamm's  eyes 
with  a  single  comment : 

"  The  handwriting  ! " 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  285 

Indisputable  fact.  The  same  person  had  written 
both  letters. 

"  Well !  well !  well !  "  murmured  John  Lamm 
helplessly. 

"  Who's  at  the  bottom  of  your  conspiracy  now?" 
Thomas  whispered  triumphantly.  "  Ah,  my  boy, 
you'll  have  to  revise  your  facts  to  fit  these  circum- 
stances." 

The  detective  checked  him  with  a  warning  look, 
and  immediately  addressed  the  maid  : 

"  You  say  Mrs.  Stackhouse  went  out  last  evening. 
Do  you  know  why  ? " 

"  Well,  you  may  be  sure  I  do.  If  not,  I  can 
guess,"  returned  the  maid.  "  She  spent  all  the 
afternoon  trying  to  write  a  letter.  She  must  have 
torn  up  a  dozen,  for  the  waste  basket  was  half  full 
of  scraps.  And  she  went  to  the  post  office  and  put 
it  in  with  her  own  hand,  for  Moffett  saw  her." 

"  Indeed  !  "  said  Lamm  ;  "  and  we,  I  suppose, 
have  no  means  of  knowing  for  whom  that  letter 
was  meant  ? " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we  have,"  returned  the  maid,  with 
an  air  of  self-conscious  shrewdness.  "  I  happened 
to  be  in  at  the  time  she  was  going  out.  It  was  a 
big,  square,  cream-white  envelope,  such  as  she 
always  writes  on,  and  was  written  to  Thornton 
Stackhouse,  Adams  House,  Boston." 

"  Umph  !  And  so  she  has  at  last  answered  him, 
Thomas,"  he  whispered  in  his  friend's  ear;  "we 
must  have  that  letter  or  the  ones  that  she  didn't 
send.  It  may  give  us  the  whole  story." 


286  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Thomas  nodded. 

"  And  this,  I  suppose,  is  all  ? "  asked  the  detec- 
tive, turning  again  to  the  young  woman. 

Mollie  White  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  actually 
tittered  in  her  delight. 

"Well,  I  guess  not.  Well,  I  guess  not,"  she 
exclaimed,  and  enjoyed  the  huge  anticipation  and 
wonder  to  be  read  in  the  faces  of  the  two  men. 

"  Mollie,  you're  a  jewel,"  said  John  Lamm,  with 
genuine  admiration.  "  If  you  keep  on  this  way 
I'll  get  brother  John's  salary  raised.  Now,  what 
is  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  sir,  to  begin  with,  Miss  Har- 
wood  went  out  last  evening  to  visit  a  friend  of 
hers,  and  while  she  was  gone  Mrs.  Marion  had  a 
visitor." 

"Was  this  before  or  after  the  letter  was  writ- 
ten?" 

"  This  was  after  it  was  written,  but  before  it  was 
posted,  sir.  He  only  stayed  half  an  hour,  and 
afterward  she  went  right  and  carried  the  letter." 

"  By  he,  of  course  you  mean  '  the  friend  of  the 
family,'  Mr.  Fetridge  ?  " 

The  girl  tossed  her  head  with  a  contemptuous 
sniff. 

"  Friend  of  the  family,  indeed  !  Well,  the  family 
with  him  consists  of  one  person,  I  can  tell  you ; 
and  that  person  don't  scarcely  be  in  a  position  to 
return  his  affections." 

"  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  What's  this  ?"  said  Lamm.  "  Love- 
making  ! " 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  287 

"  No  wonder  you're  surprised,  Mr.  Lamm,  and 
she  a  married  woman  !  Well,  you  may  be  sure  I 
was  ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  you  I'd  give  my  notice  at 
once.  Never  till  last  night  did  I  really  suspect  the 
baseness  of  such  a  monster  ;  but  then  I  saw  with 
my  own  eyes  and  heard  with  my  own  ears." 

"  So  you  listened  to  their  conversation,  did 
you  ?" 

"And  what  harm?  If  it  was  me  they  suspected 
of  thieving  they'd  have  no  hesitancy,  ladies  and 
gentlemen  though  they  consider  themselves  to  be. 
Before  this,  you  see,  I  haven't  a-dared  to  risk  it  on 
account  of  Miss  Harwood,  but  last  night,  the  old 
lady  being  out  and  nobody  on  the  floor  but  myself, 
I  just  quietly  sidled  up  to  the  portiere  and  peeked 
in.  You  see,  it  was  warm  and  the  light  in  the  hall 
hadn't  been  turned  on,  and  it  was  so  dark  you 
could  scarcely  see  your  hand,  but  the  glass  doors 
leading  from  the  parlor  to  the  veranda  were 
opened,  and  the  missis  and  her  fine  gentleman  were 
sitting  full  in  the  stream  of  moonlight." 

"  Umha  !  How  interesting  you  are,  Miss  White  ! 
Describe  their  attitudes  as  near  as  you  can  re- 
member." 

"  Well,  sir,  she  was  fidgety  and  drawn  away;  but 
he  was  tender  and  kept  coming  nearer  on  the  sofa. 
'  You  know  what  the  obstacles  are,'  says  she.  'And 
if  there  were  no  obstacles  ? '  says  he.  '  Oh,  Rich- 
ard, I  am  a  very  wretched  woman  ! '  says  she,  which 
was  true  enough  in  all  conscience.  She  kept  tap- 
ping her  foot  on  the  carpet,  with  her  face  turned 


288  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

away  from  him,  and  he  getting  nearer  and  bolder 
all  the  time,  and  finally  he  caught  her  hand.  '  You 
are  making  yourself  miserable,  Marion,'  says  he. 
But  she  pulled  herself  away  and  got  up  and  nearly 
froze  him  with  her  look.  '  You  forget,  sir  ! '  says 
she.  '  Everything  but  my  mad  love  for  you,  yes,' 
says  he.  And  as  he  was  getting  on  his  knees  she 
put  out  her  hands  in  front  of  her  as  if  to  ward  him 
off,  and  says,  '  Oh,  Richard  !  Richard  !  Am  I  not 
wretched  enough  already  without  your  making  me 
worse  ? '  But  I  guess  he  thought  not,  for  he  kept 
on  making  her  a  great  deal  worse." 

"  And  as  I  understand  it,"  said  the  detective, 
"  she  was  not  so  tremendously  angry,  after  all  ?  " 

"  Well,  not  what  I  call  angry,"  returned  the  par- 
lor maid  promptly.  "  If  it  had  been  me,  and  me  a 
married  woman,  I'd  have  knocked  him  down  ;  but 
she  only  seemed  to  get  on  her  guard  to  keep  him 
just  so  far  and  no  nearer.  But  then,  you  know, 
she  says  she  aint  married,  and  I  suppose  if  she's 
got  that  notion  it  makes  a  difference.  '  And  ah, 
Richard  ! '  she  says,  *  when  I  think  of  what  we  two 
have  lost  because  of  our  own  miserable  folly* — I 
can  swear  to  them  words  miserable  folly — says  she, 
'  when  I  think  of  it  I  almost  go  mad.  I  have  pun- 
ished myself  by  a  year  of  torment  and  a  wasted, 
ruined  life,  and  you — '  And  then  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands  and  began  to  cry." 

"  What !  Marion  Stackhouse  !  Cry !  Impossi- 
ble !  "  exclaimed  the  detective. 

"  Cry  !  "   echoed  the  parlor  maid.     "  And   why 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  289 

not  ?  I've  seen  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes  for 
very  spite.  Oh,  I  guess  you  don't  know  that 
woman.  She  can  cuddle  up  and  be  as  cunning  as 
a  kitten  if  she  wants  to.  Well,  she  was  very  melan- 
choly then,  and  sat  down  and  cried  for  a  long  time, 
and  he  tried  to  console  her,  and  she  kept  saying  it 
was  '  useless,'  to '  leave  her  alone,'  to  have  '  pity  on 
her ' — and  that  sort.  And  says  he, '  But  what's  the 
harm,  Marion,  after  all,  since  you  know  the  truth 
and  I  know  it,  why  can't  we  go  a  long  way  from 
here  and  be  happy  yet  ? '  But  she  wouldn't  hear 
of  it.  '  No,'  she  says, '  there's  no  happiness  for  me 
anywhere,'  and  I  guess  that's  true  enough  too,  for 
she's  not  the  kind  that  would  ever  be  happy  if  she 
had  the  run  of  everything.  '  Oh,'  she  says, 'you 
don't  know  me,  Richard  Fetridge,  or  you'd  repulse 
me,  instead  of  sitting  beside  me.'  " 

"  Did  she  say  that  ?  Are  you  sure  ?  "  broke  in 
Thomas. 

"  That,  or  something  awfully  near  it,  sir.  I'm 
not  taking  my  oath  to  every  word ;  but  I'll  take 
my  chances  on  getting  the  sense  out  of  a  thing 
once  I  hear  it  good.  '  I  know  you,  Marion,'  says 
he,  'very  well.  You're  reckless,  and  impulsive,  and 
proud,  but  you  mean  to  do  right.  You  have  carried 
your  pride  before  this  to  the  brink  of  ruining  your 
own  happiness  and  making  a  wreck  of  my  life,  but 
I'll  answer  for  your  meaning  to  do  your  duty.' 
And  she  says  to  him,  '  What  you  call  my  pride, 
Richard  Fetridge,  is  the  evil  in  me.  Do  you  know, 
I  sometimes  believe  my  mother — '  and  there  she 


290  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

stopped  and  said,  '  At  times  I  feel  as  if  I  was  pos- 
sessed of  the  devil.'  And  I  thought  to  myself, 
others  in  your  service  have  thought  so  besides  you, 
young  lady.  But  the  way  she  said  it,  I  can  tell 
you,  gentlemen,  half  beneath  her  breath,  was 
enough  to  give  one  the  creeps.  It  even  seemed  to 
scare  him  for  the  minute.  And  then  he  tried  to 
cheer  her  up,  and  she  began  to  go  on  about  her 
sister  Stella,  and  to  say  she  believed  she'd  been  the 
death  of  that  girl.  And  right  in  the  middle  of  it 
she  had  regular  hysterics,  and  she  just  sat  on  the 
sofa  and  wrung  her  hands  and  screams  out,  '  Oh, 
I'm  wicked  !  wicked  !  wicked  !  I'd  give  my  life  to 
undo  what  I  have  done  !  Oh,  will  nothing  come  to 
my  relief  ?  Oh,  I'm  dying  by  inches  !  " 

Thomas  and  Lamm  exchanged  puzzled  and 
startled  glances. 

"  There  is  no  question,"  said  the  detective  in  a 
low  voice,  "  that  Marion  accused  herself  in  such 
language  ?  " 

"  Not  the  faintest,"  said  Miss  White  positively. 
"  That  part  of  it  is  quite  certain.  She  cried  it  out 
so  loud  it's  a  wonder  folk  in  the  street  didn't  hear 
her.  And  then  he  grasps  her  hand  and  says, 
'  Come  Marion  ;  you  must  no  longer  keep  me  in 
the  dark.  You  must  tell  me  everything — even  if 
it  does  criminate  he  whom  the  world  calls  your 
husband.'  " 

"  No  !  "  interrupted  both  men  at  once.  "  He 
didn't  say  that,  did  he  ?  " 

"  He  used  them  words,"  said  Miss  White,  with  a 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  291 

positiveness  that  set  at  defiance  both  doubt  and 
syntax.  "'And  he  was  very  particular  about  it  too. 
I  can  tell  you,  I  had  both  my  ears  wide  open  about 
that  time.  And  she  didn't  seem  to  hear  him,  but 
kept  right  on.  '  And,  oh  !  Richard,'  she  said,  '  do 
you  suppose  anything,  any  provocation,  the  worst 
treatment  you  can  imagine  a  person  to  have  received 
at  another  person's  hands  would  justify  a  mean 
and  cowardly  crime  ? '  And  with  that  he  starts 
away  from  her,  and  she  shrieks  out, '  Oh,  for  pity's 
sake,  don't  cast  me  off  !  I  am  tortured  beyond 
bearing  ! '  '  Confess,'  he  says,  and  she  threw  her 
arms  right  around  his  neck  and  whispered  in  his 
ear.  And  just  at  that  moment  I  was  nearly  fright- 
ened to  death  by  hearing  the  latch  lock.  I  knew 
if  I  stayed  I'd  be  caught  the  next  minute,  and  so 
I  ran.  It  was  Miss  Harwood,  and  I  was  none  too 
soon,  either,  for  she  lit  the  hall." 

"  Confound  Miss  Harwood  !  "  said  the  detective 
heartily.  "  She  has  spoiled  everything  for  us." 

"  Yes  ;  and  for  them  too,"  said  the  parlor  maid. 
"  For  Mr.  Fetridge  did  not  stay  five  minutes  after 
she  came." 

"  Did  you  see  him  when  he  went  ?  How  did  he 
act  ?  "  Lamm  hastened  to  ask. 

"  Just  as  usual ;  only  a  bit  excited.  I'm  sure  of 
one  thing,  sir.  Whatever  she  whispered  to  him,  it 
didn't  set  him  against  her,  for  if  he  didn't  squeeze 
her  hand  and  look  into  her  eyes  the  way  he  had  no 
business  to  when  he  left  her — then  I'm  no  judge  of 
such  things." 


292  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

The  rest  of  that  which  the  parlor  maid  had  to 
tell  was  merely  accumulative  and  corroboratory  of 
what  she  had  already  told.  Mr.  Lamm  satisfied 
himself  of  this  fact  by  a  cross-examination,  inter- 
spersed  with  sly  compliments,  and  sent  the  wide- 
awake Molly  White  away  at  last,  well  pleased  with 
herself,  to  resume,  with  increased  vigilance,  her 
watch  of  Marion  Stackhouse. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  detective,  hastily  turning 
to  Thomas  as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  "  it  remains 
for  us  to  find  out  what  Mrs.  Marion  has  written, 
and  meant  to  write,  to  her  husband.  I  must  say  it 
is  a  very  unpromising  task,  but  it  is  so  important 
that  it  must  be  attempted." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Thomas,  "  if  you'll  attend  to 
the  letters  which  she  destroyed,  I'll  turn  my  atten- 
tion to  the  one  she  mailed.  It  is  but  eleven  o'clock, 
and  I  doubt  whether  Stackhouse  has  received  it 
yet." 

"  You  had  better  be  in  a  hurry,  then." 

"  I  am  going,"  said  Thomas  ;  "  but  before  I  go  I 
want  to  know  what  you  think.  Is  your  conviction 
still  that  a  conspiracy  existed,  and  that  Marion 
North  was  the  brains  of  it  ? " 

"A  hasty  judgment  is  liable  to  recall,"  returned 
the  detective  ;  "  but  I  must  confess  that  I  still 
believe  in  the  conspiracy.  But  I  bow  to  the  facts 
in  the  case,  Thomas  ;  and  Marion  North  from 
being  the  schemer  becomes  the  tool.  It  is  plain 
that  the  excitable  and  emotional  nature  of  that 
remarkable  woman  at  Swampscott  has  been  played 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  293 

upon  to  carry  out  the  vengeance  of  this  jealous 
Creole.  How  I  do  not  know  ;  nor  why.  But  that 
it  was  Marion's  hand,  not  her  will,  that  killed  Paul 
North  now  I  think  becomes  apparent.  Don't 
you  ? " 

"  No,"  said  the  reporter  decidedly.  "  No  ;  I  do 
not.  I  do  not  believe  she  had  anything  to  do 
with  it." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  don't." 

John  Lamm  laughed. 

"  I  could  give  a  better  reason  than  that  for  your 
reluctance  to  accept  the  evidence,"  he  said.  "  But 
never  mind.  By  the  way,  I  want  to  tell  you  some- 
thing that  will  make  you  smile.  Where  I  got  it 
don't  matter  ;  but,  as  you  know,  I've  got  a  friend 
or  two  in  Pemberton  Square,  and  Applebee  isn't 
always  so  close-mouthed  as  he  ought  to  be.  Do 
you  know  what  has  made  our  illustrious  friends  so 
anxious  to  get  their  hands  on  Stella  North  ?  " 

"I  had  supposed  because  she  ran  away." 

"  Oh,  yes  ;    but  they  previously  suspected  her." 

"  And  in  the  name  of  goodness,  why  ?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Thomas.  It's  a  good  joke 
on  our  friend  Applebee.  It  seems  he  found  a 
handkerchief  on  the  stairs  in  the  North  house  the 
day  the  murder  was  discovered." 

"It  is  news  to  me." 

"  So  I  supposed.  Well,  it  was  impregnated  with 
a  peculiar  perfume.  '  Aha  !  '  cries  our  friend 
Applebee  ;  '  this  is  most  important !  I'll  take  it  to  a 


294  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

chemist,  find  out  what  it  is,  and  then  I'll  go  smell- 
ing about  the  community  till  I  light  on  it,  and 
then — '  Sort  of  a  French  detective  sleuthhound 
kind  of  an  affair,  you  know,  such  as  Applebee 
would  be  likely  to  conceive." 

"  I'm  afraid  you  show  your  prejudice  against  the 
department  there,  Lamm.  But  never  mind  the 
details.  What  was  the  outcome  of  it  ?  " 

"  The  outcome,"  said  Lamm,  with  a  quiet  laugh, 
"  was  that  Applebee  found  the  scent  on  Stella 
North,  and  the  whole  department,  without  further 
investigation,  with  their  accustomed  lightning-like 
celerity  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  Stella  North 
was  the  guilty  party." 

"Humph!"  ejaculated  the  reporter;  "they 
couldn't  have  gone  very  far  if  they  did  not  dis- 
cover that  the  two  girls  used  the  same  perfume.  I 
found  that  out  on  my  first  visit." 

"  Umha  !  Applebee  wasn't  so  lucky.  The  hand- 
kerchief was  Marion's,  of  course.  But  a  little  mis- 
take like  that  doesn't  count  with  the  department,  I 
suppose.  All  in  the  family.  But,  joking  aside, 
Thomas,  the  fact  has  a  most  serious  side  too." 

"You  think  so." 

"  Another  nail  in  the  coffin  of  that  splendid 
woman  at  Swampscott.  Thomas,  I'm  sorry  for  her. 
1  really  am.  I  admire  her  too  much  not  to  pity  her." 

"  Indeed  !  "  replied  the  reporter,  biting  his 
mustache  viciously.  "  Your  conduct  hardly  seems 
to  bear  out  your  statement.  To  my  mind,  you  show 
a  feverish  anxiety  to  convict  her  of  a  crime  that  is 


THE  MEDEA    WEEPS.  295 

utterly  impossible  for  a  woman  of  her  nature  to 
commit." 

"  Impossible  ? " 

"  Impossible !  " 

"  Even  in  a  moment  of  passion  ?  " 

"  She  would  have  been  the  first  to  convict  herself, 
to  give  herself  up,  when  the  passion  was  over." 

"Even,  we  will  say,  in  a  struggle  to  prevent 
suicide — even  by  accident,  if  you  please  ?  " 

"  Do  not  imagine  for  a  moment  that  she  would 
have  concealed  her  part  in  the  crime,  Lamm.  I 
tell  you  the  more  I  study  this  woman's  nature 
through  her  sister  Stella  the  more  I  am  convinced 
that  she  worshiped  the  very  ground  Paul  North 
trod  upon.  If  she  were  guilty,  even  in  the  most 
indirect  manner,  of  bringing  about  his  death,  the 
world  would  have  known  of  the  fatality  that  night." 

Lamm  sighed  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  hate  to  destroy  your  confidence  in  Stella 
North's  sister,  Thomas,  but  I  should  not  be  doing 
my  duty  by  you  as  a  friend  if  I  kept  back  what 
little  I  know  of  the  matter.  Let  me  ask  you  one 
question.  Do  you  believe  in  hereditary  vices. 

"  To  some  extent.     Why  ? " 

Without  replying  immediately  in  words,  the  de- 
tective unlocked  his  desk  and  afterward  a  small 
drawer  in  the  upper  part  of  it,  whence  he  extracted 
a  folded  document  of  legal  aspect. 

"  I  have  borrowed  this  from  a  friend  who  is  an 
officer  in  a  certain  charitable  institution,"  said 
Lamm.  "  I  will  simply  read  you  the  caption  of  it. 


296  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

'  Death-bed  confession  of  Mary  Anne  Loveland,  in 
which  she  avers  that  she  was  the  mother  of  the 
abandoned  infant  afterward  known  as  Hattie  May- 
nard,  who  entered  the  Temperance  Home  on  March 
3,  1863.'  I  will  simply  add  for  your  information, 
Kingman,  that  Mary  Anne  Loveland  was  the  noto- 
rious character  who  served  her  term  in  prison  for 
complicity  in  a  capital  offence  and  that  Hattie 
Maynard  is  now  Marion  Stackhouse." 

Thomas  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  take  the 
paper ;  but  Lamm  hastened  to  put  it  under  lock 
and  key  again. 

"  You  need  not  be  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  this 
document  will  ever  see  the  light  of  day.  I  have 
given  my  word  of  honor  to  the  friend  who  fur- 
nished me  with  it  not  to  let  it  pass  out  of  my  pos- 
session. The  secret  is  safe  ;  but,  I  want  to  prepare 
your  mind  for  the  crushing  exposure  of  this  unfor- 
tunate woman  which  is  coming  as  sure  as  fate." 

"  If  she  is  guilty,"  said  Thomas  moodily,  "  let  it 
come.  I  will  put  no  block  in  the  way  of  justice. 
But  poor  Stella  will  die  of  shame,"  he  added  men- 
tally.  And  the  reflection  was  followed  by  a  heavy 
sigh. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

DRAWING     THE    NET. 

AND  now  Reporter  Thomas  was  making  a  deter- 
mined though  apparently  hopeless  effort  to 
obtain  possession  of  the  letter  which  Marion  Stack- 
house  had  written  to  her  husband.  Not  only  hope- 
less the  quest  seemed,  but  dangerous.  In  the 
ordinary  routine  of  his  duties  he  would  hesitatingly 
have  rejected  an  enterprise  of  so  obnoxious  and 
disagreeable  a  nature.  But  the  case  was  becoming 
desperate  and  it  was  no  longer  a  business,  no 
longer  even  a  personal  interest.  The  mournful 
pleading  of  the  big  blue  eyes  of  Stella  North 
nerved  him  for  the  ignoble  task.  The  remem- 
brance of  some  tears  which  he  had  seen  that 
morning  trembling  on  the  long  lashes  stimulated 
him  to  unprecedented  effort.  He  was  in  that  mood 
where  to  obtain  success  he  would  stop  at  nothing 
short  of  crime.  He  hardly  knew  himself  in  this 
new  rdle ;  but  he  played  the  spy  and  the  sneak 
that  day  as  he  never  played  it  before  or  since. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  assure  himself  of  the 
existence  of  the  letter. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  holding  conference  with 
Detective  Lamm  at  the  latter's  office,  Kingman 
297 


298  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Thomas  was  walking  boldly  to  the  desk  at  the 
Adams  House. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  the  clerk,  for  it  was  not 
yet  noon  of  this  eventful  Saturday. 

'•  Good-morning,"  said  Thomas.  "  Can  you  tell 
me  whether  Mr.  Stackhouse  is  in  the  hotel  ? " 

"  Not  in  his  room,"  returned  the  clerk,  with  a 
queer  smile.  "  His  key  is  here." 

"  Curious  !  "  said  Thomas,  with  an  assumption 
of  troubled  reflection.  "  I  wonder  if  he's  got  my 
letter.  I  wrote  him  a  letter  last  night  and  posted 
it  at  Swampscott,"  he  continued  by  way  of  explan- 
ation. "  Can  you  tell  me  whether  he  has  it  yet  ?  " 

The  clerk  took  a  look  in  the  pigeon  hole  marked 
"  S  "  and  Thomas  caught  a  momentary  glimpse  of  a 
square,  white  envelope  in  his  hand.  But  the  clerk 
cast  it  back  immediately  and  turned  to  the  rescrter. 

"  There  is  a  letter  for  him  here  with  the  Swamp- 
scott postmark,"  he  said.  "  It  may  be  yours." 

"  A  square,  cream  white  envelope  ? "  queried 
Thomas,  "  that  looks  like  a  piece  of  woman's 
stationery  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  one  !  He  hasn't  got  it.  Thank 
you." 

"  Are  you  going  to  wait  and  see  him  ? "  the 
clerk  inquired,  with  another  smile. 

"  Why  ? "  asked  Thomas,  scenting  something 
unusual. 

"  Only  there  are  a  dozen  or  so  ahead  of  you  : 
that's  all.  I  thought  I'd  let  you  know." 


DRA  WING  THE  NET,  299 

"  Indeed  !     And  where  are  they  all  ?" 

"  Oh,  waiting  about  here." 

"  Business  men?  " 

"  Well,  they  have  that  look.  Since  the  failure 
Mr.  Stackhouse  seems  to  have  been  considerably 
in  demand." 

"  Oh,  I  see." 

"  Consequently,  if  it's  anything  important  you'd 
do  well  to  hunt  him  up,  as  this  letter  is  likely  to  be 
here  some  time." 

Thomas  thanked  his  informant.  As  he  turned 
away  from  the  desk  a  daring  subterfuge  by  which 
he  might  obtain  possession  of  the  letter  came  into 
his  mind,  but  he  dismissed  it  with  impatient  horror. 

"  What  am  I  thinking  of?"  he  exclaimed  men- 
tall}'.  "  Forgery  !  Tampering  with  the  mail  !  I 
must  season  my  impetuosity  with  a  little  reason." 

He  sauntered  out  as  far  as  the  doorway,  and 
stood  there  in  a  brown  study. 

"  No,  there  is  nothing  for  me  to  do,"  he  thought, 
"  but  to  wait  here  for  the  man  to  claim  his  letter, 
however  long  that  may  be.  I  must  trust  to  luck 
and  a  determined  effort  to  get  me  a  glance  at  it 
after  he  has  read  it." 

The  warning  of  the  clerk  made  the  outcome  look 
dubious.  These  men  waiting  about  here  must  be 
creditors  or  business  associates  who  had  pressing 
reasons  to  see  Stackhouse.  The  clerk's  significant 
air  had  insinuated  that  the  junior  partner  was  avoid- 
ing them.  He  was  not  then  to  be  found  at  the 
office  of  North  &  Stackhouse  ?  Evidently  not, 


300  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

or  these  men  would  not  come  here  to  wait  for  him. 
Nevertheless  if  his  wife  had  sent  the  letter  thither, 
it  must  be  because  he  had  directed  her  to  do  so. 
If  he  deemed  it  a  matter  of  so  much  importance, 
as  John  Lamm  imagined,  would  he  not  find  some 
way  of  obtaining  his  mail  without  calling  ? 

It  was  at  the  precise  moment  when  this  thought 
was  taking  form  in  the  reporter's  mind  that  he 
observed  a  district  messenger  boy  leaving  the  office. 
The  boy  was  just  putting  his  hat  upon  his  head, 
and  Thomas  caught  a  fleeting  glimpse  of  a  square, 
white  envelope. 

In  an  instant  he  comprehended  what  must  have 
taken  place  since  he  had  left  the  desk.  Thornton 
Stackhouse  had  sent  a  requisition  to  the  clerk  for 
his  mail.  A  word  at  the  desk  confirmed  the  re- 
porter's suspicions,  and  in  another  minute  he  was 
upon  the  heels  of  the  messenger.  His  task  at  pres- 
ent seemed  simplicity  itself.  To  follow  this  mes- 
senger boy  till  he  was  finally  led  into  the  presence 
of  the  man  whose  commission  he  executed  was  a 
task  that  certainly  called  for  none  of  the  higher  ex- 
pedients of  Mr.  Thomas's  genius. 

The  boy  took  a  course  southward  and  continued 
straight  up  Washington  Street  until  he  reached 
Union  Park  Street,  when  he  turned  short  to  the 
right,  and  a  few  minutes  afterward  entered  the 
door  of  a  drinking  saloon  in  Shawmut  Avenue. 
Thomas  had  no  special  associations  with  the  place, 
though  he  knew  of  it  in  a  general  way.  Taking  the 
precaution  not  to  enter  it  immediately  and  thus  give 


DRAWING  THE  NET.  301 

anybody  who  might  be  on  the  watch  an  idea  that 
there  was  anything  other  than  a  coincidence  in  his 
arrival  on  the  heels  of  the  messenger  boy,  Thomas 
loitered  into  the  place  and  passed  directly  into  the 
bar,  where  he  called  for  a  drink.  There  were  two 
or  three  men  standing  at  the  bar,  but  at  the 
moment  of  his  entrance  nothing  was  to  be  seen 
either  of  the  messenger  or  of  Thornton  Stackhouse. 
A  number  of  booths  ranged  along  the  side  of  the 
room  opposite  the  bar,  however,  attracted  his  atten- 
tion, and,  in  accordance  with  his  surmises,  Mr. 
Thomas  was  pleased  very  shortly  to  see  the  mes- 
senger emerge  from  one  of  these  places.  The  boy 
had  scarcely  passed  out  when  the  reporter,  swal- 
lowing at  a  gulp  the  beverage  which  he  had  ordered, 
placed  the  payment  therefor  upon  the  counter,  and 
lounged  down  past  the  compartment  from  which 
the  boy  had  issued. 

His  expectations  were  entirely  correct.  There 
sat  Thornton  Stackhouse  reading — devouring  would 
be  a  more  accurate  word —  the  letter  which  had 
been  posted  at  Swampscott  the  night  before. 
Fearful  of  attracting  attention,  Thomas  increased 
his  pace,  but  precautions  were  needless.  The  man 
was  absorbed,  completely  oblivious  to  all  his  sur- 
roundings. Even  in  the  momentary  glimpse  he 
had  of  him  the  reporter  was  startled  into  the  belief 
that  the  contents  of  the  letter  had  utterly  over- 
whelmed and  dazed  the  man  who  had  received  it. 
The  paper  was  crumpled  fiercely  between  his  hands, 
and  he  was  glaring  at  it  with  scarcely  the  look  of 
sanity  in  his  eyes. 


3°2  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Thomas  slipped  hastily  into  the  next  booth.  The 
brief  vision  which  had  just  been  granted  him  was 
certainly  not  calculated  to  lessen  his  idea  of  the 
importance  of  the  document  of  which  he  was  in 
quest,  or  to  shake  his  determination  to  become 
possessed  of  it. 

But  how  ? 

This  was  a  problem  which  might  well  puzzle  Mr. 
Thomas.  The  greater  the  importance  of  the  letter 
the  more  carefully  would  its  possessor  guard  it.  If 
he  destroyed  it,  there  was  little  hope  that  so  shrewd 
a  man  as  Stackhouse  would  be  satisfied  with  leav- 
ing it  in  a  condition  which  would  not  preclude  its 
restoration.  If  he  carried  it  away  with  him,  under 
what  possible  pretence  could  the  reporter  get  it? 
He  certainly  could  not  ask  him  for  it:  he  was 
scarcely  prepared  even  in  his  present  fever  of  eager- 
ness to  resort  to  violence.  Were  he  so  inclined, 
how  could  he  even  hope  for  the  opportunity  of  steal- 
ing it?  Nevertheless,  Thomas  compressed  his  lips 
and  waited  patiently  the  unpredictable  course  of 
events. 

He  had  not  long  to  wait  for  a  change  in  the  situ- 
ation. He  heard  Stackhouse  crushing  the  paper 
and  murmuring  undistinguishable  words  below  his 
breath.  Then  again,  he  fancied,  from  the  sounds, 
that  the  man  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  leav- 
ing the  booth.  A  cautious  reconnoitring  assured 
the  reporter  that  he  was  correct  in  this  surmise. 
Stackhouse  had  passed  to  the  bar,  and  he  heard  him 
in  no  very  steady  voice  asking  for  brandy.  Where 


DRAWING  THE  NET.  3°3 

was  the  letter?  Actuated  by  an  absurd  hope,  the 
reporter  slipped  into  the  booth  which  Stackhouse 
had  just  vacated.  A  minute's  search  assured  him 
that  Stackhouse  had  not  committed  the  unpardona- 
ble indiscretion  of  leaving  even  the  remnants  of  the 
document  upon  the  floor.  Undoubtedly  he  had 
not  torn  it  up,  but  had  replaced  it  bodily  in  his 
pocket. 

After  drinking  the  brandy,  Stackhouse  went  out, 
and  the  reporter  followed  him  from  the  saloon. 
Thomas  was  not,  however,  so  absorbed  in  the 
actions  of  his  intended  victim  that  he  was  oblivious 
to  other  things.  It  was  quite  obvious  to  him  that 
two  of  the  men  who  had  been  lounging  at  the  bar 
suddenly  became  alert  and  lost  all  interest  in  the 
place  as  soon  as  Stackhouse  had  left  it.  So  eager 
were  they  to  get  into  the  street  that  they  jostled  Mr. 
Thomas  on  their  way.  They  were  ordinary-look- 
ing men.  Nothing  about  them  was  calculated  to 
linger  in  the  memory  or  to  attract  a  second  glance. 
One  of  them  sauntered  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
street.  The  other  kept  along  just  in  front  of 
Thomas. 

The  reporter  frowned.  These  details  were  no 
enigma  to  him.  He  recognized  at  once  the  precau- 
tionary measures  of  the  police  department.  These, 
then,  were  Thomas  Stackhouse's  constant  compan- 
ions, and  the  reporter  realized  that  their  presence 
made  his  quest,  if  not  more  dangerous,  at  least 
vastly  more  difficult. 

Still  he  went  on.     The  detectives  followed  Stack- 


304  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

house.  Thomas  followed  the  detectives.  Did 
Stackhouse  know  of  his  double  espionage?  There 
were  no  evidences  that  he  did  or  that  he  cared  one 
way  or  the  other.  He  went  forward  at  a  good  pace, 
his  eyes  always  downward  or  straight  ahead.  What 
a  walk  he  was  leading  them !  Apparently  he  had 
forgotten  that  there  were  any  means  of  conveyance 
about  the  city.  Ignoring  alike  horse  cars  and  cabs, 
Thorton  Stackhouse  went  from  the  barroom  in 
Shawmut  Avenue  to  the  Chelsea  Ferry,  at  the  foot 
of  Hanover  Street.  The  four  men,  who  were  not 
all  conscious  of  their  association  of  interest,  passed 
upon  the  ferry-boat  together. 

After  the  boat  was  out  in  the  stream,  for  the 
first  time  Stackhouse's  conduct  became  suspicious. 
He  glanced  about  him,  and  wandered  from  point 
to  point,  apparently  with  two  objects  in  view.  He 
seemed  to  be  trying  to  get  as  far  as  possible  from 
other  people,  and  as  near  as  possible  to  the  rail. 

A  dark  suspicion  entered  the  reporter's  mind. 
Was  Thornton  Stackhouse  contemplating  suicide? 
Whether  or  not,  it  was  not  at  all  necessary  for  him 
to  interfere.  Circumstances  happily  enabled  him  to 
watch  the  proceedings  from  a  safe  distance,  for  the 
two  detectives,  doubtless  imbued  with  the  same 
suspicion  which  had  occurred  to  Thomas,  kept  close 
upon  the  heels  of  the  unfortunate  man.  Evidently 
they  had  no  intention  of  permitting  their  prey  to 
escape  them,  even  through  the  medium  of  violent 
death.  Justice  inexorably  endeavors  to  close  even 
this  door  of  refuge  to  the  victims  whom  she  pro- 
poses to  sacrifice. 


DRAWING  THE  NET.  305 

Stackhouse  once  lost  his  temper.  He  turned 
hotly  upon  one  of  his  tormentors. 

"Come,  sir!"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  suppressed 
passion.  "End  this  farce.  If  my  safety  is  so  im- 
portant to  you,  arrest  me  and  have  done  with  it!" 

The  man  regarded  him  with  a  cold  stare. 

"Excuse  me,  sir,"  he  said  gruffly.  "I  don't 
know  you." 

The  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  turned 
indifferently  to  a  view  of  the  landscape.  Stack- 
house  bit  his  lip;  his  anger  vanished;  he  became 
moody.  His  eyes  were  cast  down,  and  he  no  longer 
looked  about  him. 

When  the  ferry-boat  reached  the  other  side,  the 
ruined  banker  disembarked,  and  for  a  time  wandered 
aimlessly  about  the  water  front.  His  hands  were 
clasped  behind  him  and  his  head  hung  down.  He 
walked  like  an  old  man. 

With  the  same  outward  bearing  he  took  a  ferry- 
boat back  to  the  city,  and  set  out  once  more  upon 
one  of  his  interminable  walks.  There  was  a  new 
feature  added  to  his  conduct.  At  nearly  every 
drinking  saloon  he  stopped  and  ordered  liquor. 
His  walk  became  unsteady,  but  he  went  on  like  a 
man  who  had  a  definite  end  in  view.  The  frequent 
visits  to  the  saloons  puzzled  Thomas  at  first.  Sud- 
denly he  had  an  inspiration. 

"The  letter  from  his  wife  was  a  terrible  blow  to 
him.  He  seeks  oblivion.  This  is  his  second  effort 
to  obtain  it.  The  first  was  death,  and  it  was  denied 
him.  The  second,  though  temporary,  is  quite  as 


3°6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

effective,  and  will  be  secured  when  he  has  imbibed 
a  sufficient  quantity  of  alcohol!" 

Thomas  began  to  have  a  vague  hope.  His  sus- 
picions became  certainty  very  soon.  Thornton 
Stackhouse  entered  at  last  a  third-class  hotel  at  the  _ 
North  End,  and  paid  for  a  room.  The  call  boy 
came  down  after  a  few  minutes  for  a  bottle  of 
brandy,  and  Stackhouse  locked  himself  in  the  room 
with  it. 

Even  the  experienced  Thomas  shuddered.  That 
a  man  who  had  occupied  the  position  in  the  world 
of  the  late  junior  partner  of  North  &  Stackhouse 
should  be  reduced  to  an  extremity  of  this  kind,  filled 
him  with  a  feeling  akin  to  pity.  But  nothing  shook 
his  resolution.  Whether  it  tended  to  save  this 
miserable  exile  from  respectability  or  to  give  him 
the  final  kick  which  should  destroy  his  last  hold  of 
the  bushes  on  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  the  bit  of 
evidence  now  in  Stackhouse's  possession  must  be 
secured. 

A  private  word  or  two  in  the  ear  of  the  proprie- 
tor secured  the  reporter  a  room  on  the  second  floor, 
immediately  adjoining  that  occupied  by  the  man  in 
whom  all  his  interest  centered.  There  was  a  com- 
municating door,  but  it  was  locked  on  the  other 
side.  Against  this  door  the  reporter  remained  lis- 
tening, conjecturing,  planning,  for  quite  two  hours. 
The  audible  evidences  of  Stackhouse's  presence 
had  for  some  time  ceased.  Thomas  realized  that  it 
was  time  to  act. 

He  began  a  great  clamor  upon  the  do'or.     There 


DRAWING  THE  NET.  3°7 

was  not  a  sound  in  answer.  Thomas  left  his  room, 
and  sought  out  the  proprietor. 

"You  know  me,  don't  you — Thomas,  of  the 
Globe ?  Ah!  Well,  I  want  to  save  you  trouble. 
There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  that  man  in  the 
room  next  to  mine  has  made  away  with  himself." 

"  No  ! "  exclaimed  the  proprietor,  aghast. 

"  Quite  so,  sir.  I  have  suspected  him  for  some 
time.  I  can  account  for  the  sounds  I  have  heard 
in  no  other  manner.  They  suddenly  ceased,  and  for 
some  time  I  have  been  making  noise  enough  to  raise 
the  dead.  He  doesn't  respond." 

Within  four  minutes  the  door  of  Mr.  Stackhouse's 
room  was  forced,  and  half  a  dozen  men  rushed  into 
the  chamber.  Stackhouse  lay  upon  the  bed,  mo- 
tionless. His  coat  and  vest  were  thrown  carelessly 
ever  the  chair. 

"  He  is  drunk  !  "  cried  one  of  the  detectives. 

r 

"  He  is  dying,"  said  Thomas.  "  Where  are  his 
papers  ?  We  must  have  his  name." 

With  admirable  coolness  before  them  all,  Thomas 
took  a  pocket-book  from  the  coat  which  lay  upon 
the  chair,  and  was  proceeding  to  investigate  its 
contents. 

An  authoritative  hand  was  suddenly  laid  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  one  of  the  detectives  whispered 
in  his  ear  : 

"  Are  you  crazy,  Thomas  ?  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  You  know  well  enough  who  the  man  is. 
None  of  your  tricks,  please.  Put  back  that  pocket- 
book." 


308  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

The  reporter  had  a  faint  flush  in  his  cheeks,  but 
he  yielded  without  protest. 

The  square  white  envelope  was  already  in  his 
possession. 

An  hour  later  he  read  the  letter.  Its  contents 
filled  him  with  astonishment  and  excitement.  It 
was  certainly  not  what  he  expected,  but  it  seemed 
to  him  pregnant  with  possibilities.  He  hastened  to 
find  John  Lamm  ;  but  the  office  of  the  detective 
was  closed,  and  he  was  unable  to  locate  him. 

"  It's  fate  ! "  cried  Thomas.  "  I  shall  act  alone, 
and,  fortune  helping  me,  I  shall  save  Stella  North 
and  her  sister  Marion  !  " 

And  that  Saturday  evening  he  took  the  train  for 
Swampscott. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"NAME    THE    MAN." 

MONDAY  morning,  eleven  days  exactly  from 
that  last  and  memorable  meeting  of  the  direct- 
ors of  the  Nicaragua  Midland,  when  Paul  North's 
coming  was  awaited  in  vain,  Thornton  Stackhouse 
staggered  into  the  office  of  Detective  Lamm. 

A  few  hours  had  wrought  a  great  change  in  the 
man — a  change  for  the  worst.  Careworn  before, 
he  was  now  absolutely  haggard.  But  one  look 
was  needed  to  assure  Mr.  Lamm  that  his  visitor 
had  passed  a  sleepless,  wretched  night. 

Unmistakable  signs  of  debauch,  too,  were  to  be 
observed.  His  lips  twitched  strangely;  the  lines  of 
his  anxious  face  were  more  deeply  drawn  ;  an  un- 
healthy, blotched  redness  had  taken  the  place  of 
once  healthy  color,  and  there  was  an  incessant 
trembling  of  the  hands,  unusual  and  ominous. 

Mr.  Lamm,  with  a  good  deal  of  concern  ex- 
pressed in  his  look,  sprang  up  to  greet  him,  and 
assisted  the  man  to  a  chair. 

"  Why,   Mr.   Stackhouse,"   he  exclaimed,   "  you 

are  not  well.     Why  did  you  come  down  town  this 

morning  ?     You  should  have  sent   for  me.     You 

are  in  no  condition  to  be  out  in  the  street  on  such 

309 


310  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

a  warm  day.  Let  me  call  a  carriage.  I  will  go 
down  to  your  room  at  the  Adams  House  and  talk 
with  you  there,  if  you  like." 

Thornton  Stackhouse  shook  his  head  and  put 
out  a  trembling  hand. 

"  No — no,"  he  said  huskily.  "  You  are  very 
good  to  think  of  it.  Perhaps  I  should  not  have 
left  my  room.  But  the  hotel  is  a  horror  to  me,  sir. 
I  cannot  set  foot  in  the  hall  without  meeting 
the  scowling  face  of  some  creditor  of  North  & 
Stackhouse.  People  point  after  me  as  I  walk 
along,  and  talk  under  their  breath  about  me.  Fools! 
They  think  I  do  not  see  these  things.  I  am  fol- 
lowed here,  there,  and  everywhere,  hounded  like  an 
escaped  convict.  Saturday  I  lay  down  on  a  bed, 
and  they  broke  open  my  room  to  make  sure  I  had 
not  escaped  them  !  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Lamm,  for 
all  that  you  have  done  and  meant  to  do  for  me. 
But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  not  to  endure  this 
life  any  longer.  I  am  going  away." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  returned  Mr.  Lamm  cheerfully, 
with  his  hand  on  the  man's  shoulder,  but  looking 
anxiously,  none  the  less,  into  his  haggard  face. 
"  Stick  to  your  colors  a  little  longer.  The  fight  is 
almost  over." 

"  Almost  over  !  "  Stackhouse  echoed  the  words 
with  a  curious,  dull  intonation.  "  My  hopes  of 
happiness  are  wrecked.  The  future  is  dark — all 
dark.  The  shadow  of  crime,  once  it  falls  on  a 
man's  life,  can  never  be  lifted.  You  know  how 
terribly  true  that  is,  Mr.  Lamm.  This  is  no  more 


"NAME   THE  MAN."  31 1 

than  my  just  deserts.  No  more.  Yes,  I  am  going 
away.  Whatever  the  risk  I  care  not.  Why  should 
I  stay  in  this  city  of  torment  ?  " 

Mr.  Lamm  gave  another  friendly  touch  upon  the 
shoulder  of  the  dejected  figure,  but  his  own  look  of 
anxiety  was  only  intensified. 

M  Wait !  "  said  the  detective,  in  tones  of  sympathy. 
"  The  truth  is  coming,  and  it  is  coming  fast.  You 
have  trusted  me  so  far.  Don't  cast  my  advice  to 
the  winds  now." 

"  I  do  not  care  the  turn  of  my  hand  whether  the 
truth  comes  out  to-day  or  to-morrow,  or  never," 
gloomily  answered  Stackhouse,  looking  at  the  face 
bent  near  his  own,  with  hollow,  despairing  eyes. 
"  I  have  no  longer  any  interest  in  any  possible 
event  that  may  happen  to  me.  But  out  of  this  hor- 
rible place  and  these  horrible  surroundings  I  mean 
to  go,  and  without  delay.  Mr.  Lamm,  I  thank 
you  again  for  the  noble  way  in  which  you  have 
helped  me." 

"  Don't  speak  of  that,"  interposed  Mr.  Lamm. 

"  I  must  speak  of  it.  In  all  my  trouble  and 
remorse  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  And  now  let  me 
have  your  bill,  Mr.  Lamm,  and  I  will  draw  my 
check  for  the  amount  at  once — the  last  check  that 
Thornton  Stackhouse  will  ever  fill  out  in  Boston." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  Mr.  Lamm  remonstrated,  "  I  have 
no  bill  to  present.  Why,  my  work  is  not  done  yet. 
When  the  proper  time  comes  I  shall  not  forget  it, 
be  sure  of  that,"  he  added,  with  assumed  lightness 
of  manner. 


312  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Stackhouse  got  up  rather  unsteadily,  but  with  a 
filled  purpose  in  his  look. 

"  Let  me  go  into  your  inner  office,"  he  asked, 
"  and  make  out  a  check  if  it's  only  as  a  matter  of 
form.  Besides,  I  want  to  write  a  moment  on 
another  matter,  and  I  should  like  to  be  undisturbed 
by  any  chance  caller  you  might  have." 

Mr.  Lamm  was  at  the  door  of  his  little  "  den  " 
in  a  moment,  opened  his  desk,  and  placed  pen  and 
paper  at  his  visitor's  disposal.  Stackhouse  sat 
down,  and  the  detective  went  out,  softly  closing  the 
door  upon  the  client  at  his  work. 

Roused  from  certain  regretful  momentary  medi- 
tations by  the  entrance  of  his  trusted  worker, 
"  Bill,"  Mr.  Lamm  began  to  talk  with  him  in  an 
undertone. 

In  the  very  middle  of  their  hushed  conference, 
both  men  started,  and  looked  wildly  around. 

The  sound  of  an  explosion  came  to  their  ears 
with  terrible  distinctness. 

It  was  unmistakably  a  pistol  shot. 

Moved  by  a  common  impulse,  both  rushed 
toward  the  inner  office.  When  Detective  Lamm 
pushed  open  the  door  and  went  in,  his  subordinate 
was  close  behind. 

The  room  was  full  of  smoke.  But  the  cloud 
lifted  as  the  current  of  fresher  air  entered,  and  in 
an  instant  the  two  were  staring  into  a  face — a  face 
that  did  not  return  their  look  of  horror,  the  face  of 
a  dead  man. 

Dead  !     Sitting  up  in  his  chair  at  Mr.  Lamm's 


"NAME   THE  MAN."  313 

desk,  with  one  hand  clutching  a  pen,  and  in  the 
other  a  revolver,  from  which  a  tiny  wreath 
of  smoke  was  curling,  was  the  form  of  Thornton 
Stackhouse. 

So  true  had  been  his  aim  that  the  transition  from 
life  to  death  could  have  taken  scarcely  a  second 
of  time.  He  had  blown  out  his  brains. 

With  a  stifled  cry  Mr.  Lamm's  companion 
started  back.  His  white  face  met  at  the  outer 
door  the  frightened  look  of  another  man,  a  convey- 
ancer, who  had  an  office  close  by. 

"  A  man  has  shot  himself  in  there  !  "  whispered 
Bill.  The  new  comer  hurried  out  of  the  room. 
Others,  alarmed  at  the  report  of  the  pistol,  were 
hurrying  to  the  scene  ;  and  in  an  incredibly  short 
space  of  time  every  occupant  of  the  building 
seemed  to  be  possessed  of  the  startling  news. 

John  Lamm  quickly  regained  his  accustomed 
composure,  and  barred  the  outer  door  in  advance 
of  the  rush  of  the  excited  throng  which  he  knew 
was  coming. 

He  returned,  a  moment  later,  to  the  little  room, 
paying  not  the  slightest  heed  to  the  crush  without, 
or  to  the  loud  and  reiterated  demands  :  "  Let  us 
in  !  Let  us  in  !  " 

In  the  dead  man's  clenched  hand,  which  Mr. 
Lamm  made  no  attempt  to  unclasp,  was  held 
a  32-calibre  revolver.  The  other  hand  held 
a  pen. 

Written  on  the  blotter  of  the  desk  was  this,  the 
last  message  of  Thornton  Stackhouse  : 


314  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  Send  for  my  wife,  Marion  Stackhouse. 
"  Tell  her  my  death  is  my  reparation. 

"  I  can  forgive  her  if  she  can  forgive  me.  But  I  cannot 
live  without  her." 

Mr.  Lamm  read  the  words,  and  gave  a  look  full 
of  pity  at  the  motionless  figure  sitting  there — so 
near  him,  yet  in  an  awful  sense  so  far  removed. 

The  stentorian  demand  at  the  outer  door  had 
ceased  when  he  re-entered  his  main  office,  but  there 
was  a  dull  murmuring,  which  grew  to  a  very  babel 
of  excited  sound  when  Mr.  Lamm's  form  was  seen 
on  the  threshold. 

Two  men  were  standing  close  to  the  door,  having 
apparently  been  given  that  post  of  distinction  by 
common  consent  of  the  crowd,  who  held  back  a 
little  way. 

Mr.  Lamm  knew  his  men  at  once. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said  gravely,  "  you  are  out- 
witted ! " 

They  made  a  pretense  of  misunderstanding  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  said  the  older  man. 

"  I  mean,"  returned  the  detective  quietly,  "  that 
you  can  inform  your  inspector  that  your  services 
will  be  no  longer  necessary.  The  inner  room,  gen- 
tlemen." 

He  waved  his  hand  for  them  to  enter. 

They  hurried  in.  In  another  minute  one  of 
them  came  out,  forced  his  way  through  the  in- 
creasing throng  which  blocked  the  entrance,  and 
hurried  after  Inspector  Applebee. 

Mr.  Lamm  turned  gravely  to  his  assistant. 


"NAME    THE  MAN."  3*5 

"  Go  to  Richard  Fetridge's  office,"  he  said  in  a 
low  tone,  "  and  have  him  here  at  once.  Don't  ex- 
plain. Don't  listen  to  any  excuses  for  delay." 

The  man  pushed  through  the  crowd  and  was  off 
like  a  shot. 

Both  messengers  were  signally  successful. 

To  the  immense  satisfaction  of  the  breathless 
officer  in  citizen's  clothes,  he  met  Inspector  Apple- 
bee  coming  down  the  street  holding  his  course 
directly  in  the  line  taken  by  Mr.  Lamm's  messenger. 

Two  words,  and  the  inspector  hurried  toward  the 
scene  of  death,  and  found  his  way  through  the  press. 
Mr.  Lamm,  waiting  at  the  door,  bowed  and  ad- 
mitted him  at  once. 

With  Inspector  Applebee  and  his  man,  a  great 
surge  of  excited  humanity  rushed  into  Mr.  Lamm's 
office.  Only  by  dint  of  the  most  active  exertions 
could  the  police  keep  back  the  eager  crowd  from 
the  little  room. 

Presently  there  was  a  stir  at  the  outer  door. 
Attention  was  diverted  for  the  moment  from  what 
the  little  room  contained  of  animate  or  inanimate 
humanity,  as  Mr.  Fetridge,  visibly  excited,  entered 
the  office  under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Lamm's 
messenger. 

Mr.  Lamm,  counting  upon  his  speedy  coming, 
was  on  the  watch,  and  with  the  co-operation  of 
Inspector  Applebee,  to  whom  the  detective  deferred 
as  being  the  representative  of  authority,  Richard 
Fetridge  was  admitted  to  the  inner  room. 

"  A  horrible  sight ! "  he  murmured,  putting  his 


31 6  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

hands  before  his  face,  and  leaning  against  one  of 
the  officers.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  recovered, 
but  avoided,  as  much  as  he  could,  turning  any 
glance  toward  the  desk. 

"  Do  you  remember  what  Daniel  Webster  said 
once  ? "  Fetridge  spoke  to  Mr.  Lamm  under  his 
breath,  but  not  so  low  that  the  listening  ear  of  In- 
spector Applebee  did  not  catch  every  word  : 
"  '  There  is  no  refuge  for  the  murderer  but  suicide. 
And  suicide  is  confession  ! ' ' 

Hardly  was  the  sentence  uttered,  when  Inspector 
Applebee,  as  if  aroused  by  some  sudden  thought, 
ordered  the  officers  to  clear  the  outer  room  and  to 
prevent  further  blockade  upon  the  stairway. 

"  Not  you,  of  course,"  said  the  inspector,  address- 
ing generally  the  little  group. 

No  word  was  spoken  by  them  while  the  orders 
were  carried  out,  not  without  some  difficulty.  When 
the  room  was  cleared  at  last,  the  inspector  motioned 
to  one  of  his  men  to  remain  by  the  body,  and  led 
the  way  into  the  larger  room,  Mr.  Lamm  and  Mr. 
Fetridge  following  in  turn. 

Taking  no  note  of  the  detective,  Inspector  Apple- 
bee  wheeled  upon  his  companion  and  clapped  a 
firm  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  say  it,  Mr.  Fetridge, 
but  I  must  take  you  into  custody." 

Richard  Fetridge  stood  aghast,  unable  to  articu- 
late a  syllable. 

Self-poised  as  ever,  Mr.  Lamm  took  his  cue  to 
speak. 


"NAME   THE  MAN."  3r7 

"  Inspector  Applebee,"  he  said  very  coolly,  "  it  is 
not  my  business,  perhaps,  but  you  are  sure  that  in 
arresting  Mr.  Fetridge  you  are  not  making  a  mis- 
take ?  " 

The  inspector  put  on  at  once  his  invisible  robe 
of  official  dignity. 

"  I  think  I  know  what  I  am  about,  Mr.  Lamm." 
He  was  very  curt. 

"  Oh,  no  doubt,  no  doubt,  Mr.  Inspector,"  re- 
sponded the  private  detective. 

"  Of  course,  if  you  are  possessed  of  any  infor- 
mation, sir,  the  authorities  will  be  glad  to  have  you 
disclose  it."  Thus  Inspector  Applebee  still,  with 
his  official  manner  emphasized. 

"  I  do  profess  to  some  knowledge  of  this  case, 
Mr.  Inspector,"  returned  Mr.  Lamm,  "  and  that  is 
the  reason  why  I  made  that  suggestion  just  now 
about  Mr.  Fetridge  here." 

"  Oh,  we  understand  that  this  is  a  complicated 
affair,"  remarked  Inspector  Applebee.  "  We  know 
very  well  that  Richard  Fetridge  is  not  the  only 
person  in  the  case.  It's  not  professional,  perhaps, 
to  tell  you,  Mr.  Lamm,  but  it  is  a  fact  that  head- 
quarters have  a  man  at  Swampscott  now,  and 
another  important  arrest  has  already  taken  place. 
Mr.  Fetridge,  are  you  ready  ?  " 

"  Another  arrest  !  "  he  gasped.  "  In  the  name 
of  Heaven,  who  is  it  ?  Who  ?  Not  that  unfortu- 
nate sufferer  at  the  North  villa  ?  " 

The  inspector  replied  to  this  wild,  impetuous 
appeal  in  no  other  way  than  by  a  very  grim  smile. 


WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

Mr.  Lamm  had  stepped  aside,  and  Inspector 
Applebee  had  already  hooked  his  arm  firmly  in  Mr. 
Fetridge's  when  a  great  noise  at  the  door  attracted 
their  attention. 

Angry  remonstrance  and  determined  assertion 
were  contending  for  the  upper  hand,  when  Mr. 
Lamm  recognized,  or  thought  he  recognized,  one 
of  the  voices. 

"  I  must  go  in  !     I  must,  I  say  !  " 

It  was  Kingman  F.  Thomas  who  spoke  the  words, 
and  there  was  no  doubt  about  it.  Dismissing  all 
formality,  Mr.  Lamm  hastened  to  the  support  of 
his  ally,  tried  and  true. 

Inspector  Applebee,  still  attached  to  Richard 
Fetridge  in  this  peculiarly  "  professional  "  manner, 
had  not  made  up  his  mind  whether  or  not  to  rebuke 
Mr.  Lamm  for  his  precipitate  action,  when  Kingman 
F.  Thomas  entered  the  room  and  joined  the  trio. 

Breathless  from  his  verbal  and  physical  contest 
with  the  guardian  of  the  portal — himself  panting 
and  angry  enough — Thomas  could  not  speak  for  a 
moment. 

"Well,  Thomas,"  said  the  inspector  testily, 
"  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  Something  will  be  the  matter  with  you — in  a 
minute — when  I  tell  you  what  I  know,"  gasped  the 
reporter. 

His  manner  was  so  unusual  and  excited  that 
everybody  began  to  have  lively  misapprehensions. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  asked  the  inspector 
hastily.  "  Do  you  refer  to  the  North  case  ?  " 


"NAME    THE  MAN."  3*9 

"  Most  assuredly  I  do,"  cried  Thomas.  "  I  am 
in  possession  of  all  the  facts.  Lock  the  doors, 
gentlemen.  Everything  must  stay  just  as  it  is  till 
I  have  told  my  story." 

"  There  is  no  time  for  stories,"  said  Applebee. 
"  If  you  are  in  possession  of  all  the  facts,  you  know 
who  committed  the  murder.  Tell  us  in  a  word. 
Who  was  it  ?  Name  the  man." 

There  was  a  profound  silence  in  the  room  as 
Kingman  F.  Thomas,  at  last  himself  again,  opened 
his  mouth  for  a  reply. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

NOT  WHAT  THEY  EXPECTED,  BUT  STILL — 

"  INSPECTOR,"  returned    Thomas,  in  a  voice 

1  that  trembled  in  spite  of  his  efforts  to  the 
contrary, "  I  give  you  the  solemn  word  of  a  man 
who  at  least  believes  that  he  speaks  the  truth. 
There  has  been  no  murder  !  " 

But  for  the  excited  breathing  of  the  living  in  the 
office  of  John  Lamm,  detective,  there  was  no  more 
sound  in  the  moment  following  this  utterance  than 
there  would  have  been  if  Thomas's  auditors  had 
suddenly  become  so  many  ingenious  and  lifelike 
pieces  of  waxwork. 

The  inspector  was  the  first  to  recover  sufficient 
command  of  himself  to  trust  his  voice. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  have  us  believe  that  it  was  a 
suicide  ?  "  he  demanded,  with  a  scornful  incredu- 
lity. 

"  I  do  not,"  Thomas  returned  decisively.  "  I 
mean  to  have  you  believe  that  Paul  North  died 
from  accident,  pure  and  simple,  without  the  inter- 
vention of  any  second  person  in  any  possible  way." 

"  And  is  this  man,"  said  the  still  incredulous  in- 
spector, with  a  toss  of  his  head  in  Fetridge's  direc- 
tion, "  supposed  to  have  knowledge  of  this  fact?" 
320 


NOT   WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  321 

"  Me  !  "  gasped  Richard  Fetridge.  "  I  assure 
you,  sir,  that  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  of  what  he 
is  talking  about." 

"Umha!  And  the  conspiracy?"  murmured  a 
reproachful  voice  close  to  the  reporter's  ear. 

Thomas  turned  quickly  to  grasp  Lamm's  hand. 

"  My  friend,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  I  am  sorry  to 
say  that  you  were  quite  right.  There  was  a  con- 
spiracy. You  were  shrewdly  speculating  here  one 
day  as  to  which  person  was  at  the  head  of  it  and 
which  person  carried  it  out ;  but  you  fell  wide  of 
the  truth  there.  Lamm,  Paul  North  himself  was 
at  the  head  of  that  conspiracy,  and  that  pitiable 
woman,  his  adopted  daughter,  was  the  misguided 
instrument  of  perpetuating  his  vengeance." 

Among  those  who  stared  at  Thomas  there  was 
certainly  none  whose  face  expressed  more  of  be- 
wilderment, dumb  and  hopeless,  than  Richard 
Fetridge. 

Thomas  observed  this,  but  the  sight  seemed  to 
kindle  his  indignation. 

"  And  as  for  the  cause  of  the  whole  thing,"  he 
said,  "  it  is  easily  to  be  found  in  the  man  who 
entered  into  an  intrigue  with  an  adventuress  for 
purposes  of  his  own  to  completely  ruin  the  husband 
of  Paul  North's  daughter." 

"  For  the  cause  of  truth  and  justice,"  interposed 
Fetridge  in  a  faint  voice.  "  For  the  family  honor 
and — and  my  own." 

Thomas  turned  from  him  with  a  contemptuous 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  And  yet  was  he  wholly 


322  WRITTEN  IN  RED, 

just  in  condemning  this  man,  whose  chief  fault  had 
been  that  he  loved  Marion  North-Stackhouse  too 
well  to  give  her  up  so  long  as  a  chance  remained  of 
winning  her  ?  With  what  feverish  eagerness  Rich- 
ard Fetridge  must  have  seized  upon  the  straw  of 
hope  which  the  revengeful  Creole  had  brought  into 
his  office  that  fateful  morning  in  May  ;  and  how  he 
must  have  argued  with  his  own  conscience  till  he 
had  justified  his  course  to  himself  !  But,  then, 
allowance  must  be  made  for  the  frame  of  mind  of 
Mr.  Thomas,  who  was  grievously  dissatisfied  with 
the  outcome  of  the  North  case. 

"  And  Thornton  Stackhouse  ?  "  he  asked.  "  To 
speak  more  plainly,  perhaps,  Albert  Runyon.  I 
was  told  that  he  was  here." 

"  Thornton  Stackhouse  is  dead,"  returned  the 
inspector,  impatiently.  "He  committed  suicide  this 
morning.  We  are  wasting  precious  time,  Mr. 
Thomas.  If  what  you  say  is  true,  it  is  eminently 
important  that  I  should  be  assured  of  it  at  once. 
Tell  your  story  in  the  fewest  possible  words.  In 
the  first  place,  how  did  you  become  possessed  of 
this  information  ?  " 

"  Dead  !  "  murmured  the  reporter.  He  looked 
about  him  sharply  and  the  truth  seemed  to  come  to 
to  him.  He  pointed  toward  the  inner  room.  "  In 
there  ? " 

Lamm  nodded. 

"  What  a  coincidence  !  " 

Everybody  noticed  that  the  reporter's  lips  had 
turned  white.  For  a  short  time  he  seemed  vainly 
trying  to  articulate. 


NOT   WHAT    THEY  EXPECTED.  323 

The  inspector,  unaware  of  the  cause  of  his  agita- 
tion, again  reminded  him  impatiently  of  the  flight 
of  time.  Thomas  drew  himself  together  with  an 
effort. 

"  Permit  me  to  sit  down,"  he  said  ;  and  dropped 
at  once  into  the  nearest  chair.  He  began  to  search 
in  an  inner  pocket,  and  drew  therefrom  a  folded 
document. 

"  All  necessary  information  is  contained  here," 
he  said,  his  voice  gaining  strength.  "  I  have  ob- 
tained it.  It  is  my  property,  and  I  stipulate  but 
one  thing,  inspector — I  am  to  dictate  just  how 
much  of  it  is  to  be  given  to  the  press.  Just 
enough  of  it  may  be  presented  to  satisfy  the  public. 
No  more.  There  is  scandal  enough  in  this  affair 
at  the  best,  without  heaping  the  whole  truth  upon 
the  heads  of  the  unfortunate  family." 

"  You  know  yourself  whether  your  request  is 
reasonable,"  returned  Applebee.  "  If  it  is,  you 
know  very  well  that  I  shall  only  be  too  glad  to  com- 
ply with  it,  if  I  can  do  so  without  placing  my  de- 
partment in  a  false  light  before  the  public." 

"This,"  continued  Thomas,  unfolding  the  docu- 
ment, "  is  the  sworn  statement  of  Marion  North." 

"  You  mean  Mrs.  Stackhouse  ? "  the  inspector 
said. 

"  I  mean  Marion  North,  sir.  As  to  how  I  ob- 
tained it,  I  may  say  that  it  was  partly  by  threat, 
partly  by  argument.  I  accidentally  became  pos- 
sessed on  Saturday  of  the  cause  of  her  separation 
from  Thornton  Stackhouse.  The  information  I 


324  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

found  in  a  letter  written  by  her  to  him.  I  found 
her  in  the  last  agonies  of  a  determined  conflict  be- 
tween her  pride  and  a  sense  of  justice,  which  I  am 
sure  would  eventually  have  ended  in  the  surrender 
of  pride,  even  without  my  intervention.  At  first 
she  fought  me  off  with  all  her  strength,  but  I  was 
fortunately  possessed  of  a  stronger  argument  than 
anybody  else  could  have  brought  to  bear  upon  her 
in  the  person  of  her  sister." 

"  You  !  "  cried  the  inspector. 

"  I,"  returned  the  reporter.  "  Exactly,  my  friend. 
The  lady  is  a  particular  friend  of  my  mother,  and 
has  been  stopping  with  her  for  the  week  past.  I 
took  Stella  North  to  Swampscott  with  me  yesterday 
afternoon.  I  obtained  a  full  confession  last  night. 
But  I  was  obliged  to  wait  till  morning  for  a  justice 
of  the  peace  to  prepare  it  in  proper  form.  Permit 
me,  gentlemen,  if  this  explanation  of  how  I  came 
by  the  document  is  sufficiently  explicit,  to  read  it 
to  you." 

"  Read  it,"  commanded  the  inspector,  briefly. 

"  SWAMPSCOTT,  June  27,  1887. 

"  About  noon  of  the  i6th  of  June  last,  I  received 
an  anonymous  letter,  which  has  since  been  stolen 
from  my  writing-desk,  warning  me  that  an  affair  of 
great  importance  to  my  happiness  was  to  be  dis- 
cussed at  my  father's  house  in  Marlboro  Street  that 
evening,  and  advising  me,  if  I  valued  my  future 
happiness,  to  be  secretly  present  and  overhear  the 
conversation. 

"  I  had  previously  become  suspicious  that  every- 
thing was  not  right  about  the  affairs  of  my  father 
and  the  man  whom  I  considered  my  husband  ;  and 


NOT  WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  325 

I  could  see  no  harm  to  result  from  this  means  of 
obtaining  information.  I  entrusted  nobody  with 
the  contents  of  that  letter,  but,  resolved  to  accept 
the  advice  therein  contained,  I  took  my  keys  to  the 
house  in  Marlboro  Street,  and  late  in  the  afternoon 
of  Thursday  went  to  Boston. 

"  I  reached  the  house  before  seven  o'clock,  and 
let  myself  in  by  the  front  door.  A  little  more  than 
half  an  hour  later  I  heard  the  noise  of  the  latch 
key.  I  was  then  on  the  stairs,  near  the  floor  above, 
and  when  the  door  opened  I  very  plainly  heard  the 
voices  of  my  father  and  Mr.  Richard  Fetridge. 

*' '  I  am  very  sure,'  said  my  father,  '  that  Thorn- 
ton is  here.  Or  else  he  has  been  here  and  forgotten 
to  lock  the  storm  door  when  he  went  out.' 

"  '  We  must  know  before  we  begin  business,'  re- 
turned Mr.  Fetridge.  '  I  agreed  to  this  place,  you 
know,  because  there  seemed  to  be  absolutely  no 
danger  of  our  being  overheard  or  interrupted.  And 
Stackhouse  is  the  very  man  of  all  others  whom  I 
wished  to  avoid.  Is  there  no  possibility  that  he  has 
been  warned  of  this  conference  ?' 

"  '  None,'  returned  my  father.  '  I  give  you  my 
word  of  honor,  Mr.  Fetridge,  that  I  have  not  men- 
tioned a  syllable  of  this  affair  to  a  living  soul.' 

"  And  then  I  heard  them  coming  upstairs.  I 
understood  from  what  they  said  that  they  intended 
to  search  the  house.  I  ran  up  as  lightly  as  I  could 
and  locked  myself  into  a  clothes-press  in  my  own 
room.  They  afterward  came  to  the  door  of  my 
room,  but  evidently  had  already  concluded  that 
there  was  no  intruder  in  the  house. 

"  When  I  was  sure  that  they  had  gone  clown 
again,  I  stole  from  the  room,  and  took  up  a  posi- 
tion on  the  stairs  between  the  second  and  third 
floors.  I  did  not  dare  to  go  any  nearer,  but  as 
they  were  in  the  library,  the  door  of  which  was 
open,  I  could  hear  plainly  everything  that  was  said. 


326  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

"  I  soon  distinguished  a  woman's  voice,  and  real- 
ized that  she  had  been  admitted  to  this  mysterious 
'  conference  '  between  Richard  Fetridge  and  my 
father.  This  was  the  woman,  I  did  not  doubt,  who 
had  sent  me  the  anonymous  letter,  for  I  did  not 
see  how  anybody  else  could  be  aware  of  the 
appointment  at  this  house." 

Richard  Fetridge  interrupted  the  reading  at  this 
point  by  breaking  a  paper  ruler  which  he  had  been 
convulsively  twisting  in  his  hands  as  if  he  fancied 
his  fingers  were  about  the  throat  of  the  treacher- 
ous Marie. 

"  Curse  the  woman  !  "  he  cried.  "  Curse  her  ! 
curse  her  !  She  sacrificed  me  to  gratify  her  own 
cunning  instinct  of  revenge.  She  betrayed  my  con- 
fidence. She  was  not  satisfied  with  what  I  prom- 
ised her.  If  I  had  known  that  night  that  she  had 
dared  to  do  it !  " 

"  Humph  !  "  said  Thomas.  "  If  a  man  enters  into 
an  alliance  with  such  a  woman,  what  can  he  expect  ? " 

Fetridge  buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  did  not 
reply.  The  reading  continued  : 

"  I  soon  learned  who  she  was  and  why  she  was 
here,  and  what  Richard  Fetridge  had  to  say  that 
he  was  afraid  Thornton  Stackhouse  might  overhear. 
The  woman's  name  was  stated  as  Marie  Moissot, 
though  it  was  admitted  that  she  was  now  living 
under  an  alias.  It  appeared  from  the  conversation 
that  she  had  accidentally  discovered  the  identity 
of  Thornton  Stackhouse  with  the  Albert  Runyon 
for  whom  she  had  long  been  searching,  some  weeks 
before,  and  had  only  been  prevented  from  creating 
a  scandal  by  the  intervention  of  Richard  Fetridge, 
who  had  pacified  her  by  agreeing  to  effectually 


NOT  WHAT    THEY  EXPECTED.  327 

ruin  him,  if  she  would  consent  to  forego  the  malic- 
ious pleasure  of  involving  the  family  in  the  disgrace 
of  a  public  scandal. 

"  In  this  paper,  which  I  design  to  be  a  simple 
statement  of  facts,  I  do  not  wish  to  parade  my  own 
sufferings  or  emotions.  But  it  is  necessary  to  say 
that  I  had  never  loved  my  husband  ;  that  I  had 
married  only  because  I  became  engaged  to  him  in 
a  moment  of  foolish  pique,  and  my  pride  was  too 
great  to  admit  of  my  breaking  that  engagement. 
This  imperious  passion,  which  had  already  wrecked 
my  happiness,  was  the  hateful  thing  that  was 
wounded,  outraged,  stung  to  fury  by  the  revela- 
tions which  I  now  overheard.  I  saw  that  Marie 
Moissot,  with  the  natural  suspicions  of  an  unscrup- 
ulous person,  mistrusted  Mr.  Fetridge's  intention, 
perhaps  his  ability,  to  hasten  the  complete  down- 
fall of  Thornton  Stackhouse,  and  had,  therefore, 
written  to  me.  It  is  only  of  late  that  I  have  thor- 
oughly realized  how  maliciously  shrewd  she  was  in 
assuring  herself  that  I  should  become  acquainted 
with  the  facts. 

"  And  these  are  the  revelations  that  made  my 
ears  tingle,  my  heart  beat  like  a  trip-hammer,  and 
my  finger-nails  to  indent  themselves  into  the  palms 
of  my  hands  ;  that  filled  me  for  the  time  with  the 
instincts  of  the  murderess,  and  made  my  blood 
boil  with  indignant  hatred.  Thornton  Stackhouse 
was  the  assumed  name  of  an  adventurer,  Albert 
Runyon,  whose  legal  wife  and  children  were  still 
living  in  New  Orleans,  who  had  deserted  them  to 
go  with  Marie  Moissot,  a  fascinating  Creole,  at 
that  time  but  sixteen  years  old,  to  Montreal,  only 
to  desert  her  in  turn,  and  to  come  at  last  to  ME  ! 

"  This  was  the  man  for  whom  I  had  wrecked  my 
life,  broken  two  hearts,  and  sealed  the  warrant  of 
my  everlasting  degradation  ! 

"  There  is  no  room  for   denial  ;    no  chance  for 


328  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

doubts.  Everything  that  was  presented  to  my 
father  was  in  the  form  of  documents,  written  evi- 
dence, sworn  to  and  duly  witnessed.  Richard 
Fetrid'ge  is  a  lawyer,  and  he  had  spent  a  month  in 
verifying  Marie  Moissot's  story. 

"  Neither  was  there  any  room  to  doubt  that 
Albert  Runyon  in  marrying  me  understood  fully  to 
what  position  he  was  reducing  me  ;  for  the  evidence 
showed  that  he  continued  even  to  this  date  to  send 
his  wife  a  monthly  allowance  for  her  support. 

"  And  the  monster's  excuse  for  all  this  villainy 
was  that  he  did  not  love  his  wife,  but  loved  me  ! 
As  if  a  man  who  loved  a  woman  could  so  cruelly, 
heartlessly  deceive  her  ! 

"  But  this  is  not  all.  Thornton  Stackhouse  had 
not  been  honest  in  his  dealings  with  my  father. 
The  documents  revealed  a  course  of  systematic 
treachery  which  if  carried  out  would  have  ruined 
my  father  and  enriched  him.  To  be  sure,  all  these 
transactions  were  of  older  date,  and  since  his  mock 
marriage  with  me  there  was  no  evidence  that  he 
had  continued  them.  In  other  words,  he  had 
kindly  consented  to  cease  cheating  Mr.  North  in 
consideration  of  having  married  his  daughter, 
these  circumstances  palliate  his  offense  any  in  my 
eyes?  As  well  ask  a  drowning  person  if  he  is 
mindful  of  the  subtraction  or  addition  of  a  drop 
or  two  of  the  element  that  is  killing  him. 

"  There  have  been  times  in  my  life  when  I  have 
been  frightened  at  the  intensity  of  some  sudden 
evil  passion  within  me— something  that  is  so  con- 
trary to  my  teaching  and  education,  and  arises  so 
spontaneously  that  I  have  been  led  to  regard  such 
things  as  an  inheritance  from  my  unknown  parents. 
And"this  night  as  I  stood  on  the  stairs  listening,  a 
passion  of  hatred  took  possession  of  me,  which  I 
can  compare  to  nothing  but  a  great  sea  of  molten 
metal  in  a  smelting  furnace,  white,  hot  and  hissing 


NOT   WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  3-9 

like  a  serpent  if  it  comes  in  contact  with  any  cooler 
surface. 

"  My  father  was  scarcely  less  overcome  than  I 
was.  He  was  violent  and  wretched  by  turns.  Mr. 
Stackhouse  had  been  a  peculiar  element  in  his  life. 
The  man  had  had  an  influence  over  him  such  as  no 
one  else  had  ever  gained.  Now,  for  the  first  time 
he  was  shown  the  real  character  of  the  man  he  had 
trusted. 

"  Even  through  all  the  turbulence  of  my  own 
emotions  I  understood  the  intensity  of  my  father's 
feelings.  He  was  a  man  of  impulsive  and  quick 
temper.  He  never  preserved  a  hatred  ;  but  for 
that  very  reason  it  lived  all  the  fiercer  at  the  moment 
of  its  birth.  His  own  rage  at  this  instant  was  little 
short  of  mine. 

"  '  Villain  !  Scoundrel !  Harpy  !  '  I  heard  him 
mutter  from  time  to  time,  and  then  he  would  burst 
out  into  violent  imprecations  that  would  have  terri- 
.fied  me  had  I  been  in  a  mood  to  fear  anything. 

"  When  he  had  submitted  his  evidence,  Mr.  Fet- 
ridge  suggested  the  action  which  he  asked  my 
father  to  take.  He  said  that  he  had  done  all  that 
he  had  done  for  the  family  honor  and  for  my  honor. 
That  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  opportune  interven- 
tion Marie  Moissot  would  have  made  the  bigamy 
of  Albert  Runyon  a  public  scandal.  He  reminded 
my  father  that  I  was  no  more  the  wife  of  this 
scoundrel  than  as  if  that  sacrilege  of  a  ceremony 
had  never  been  performed.  There  were,  therefore, 
no  legal  ties  to  be  severed.  Mr.  North  must  act 
in  the  matter  as  if  he  had  become  possessed  of  his 
information  through  any  source  but  the  real  one. 
Richard  Fetridge's  part  in  the  affair  was  never  to 
be  known  ;  not  even  to  me.  But  I  was  to  learn  the 
truth  from  my  father's  lips.  So  was  Albert  Runyon. 
My  father  was  to  go  to  him  ;  give  him  twenty-four 
hours  to  leave  the  country  after  signing  a  damaging 


33°  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

document  which  Mr.  Fetridge  had  prepared.  In 
course  of  time  it  was  suggested  that  I  might  quietly 
obtain  a  divorce  on  the  ground  of  desertion.  In 
case  this  programme  was  carried  out,  Mr.  Fetridge 
proposed  to  help  my  father  out  of  his  financial 
difficulties.  Otherwise  he  could  withdraw  his  sup- 
port. 

"  When  the  arrangements  had  been  completed, 
Mr.  Fetridge  went  away  with  the  woman,  and  my 
father,  who  proposed  to  sleep  in  the  house  that 
night  and  to  meet  Mr.  Fetridge  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, after  seeing  them  to  the  door,  returned  to  his 
library. 

"  I  awoke  gradually  out  of  my  long  trance,  and 
went  down  to  the  library  door.  I  did  not  propose 
to  conceal  the  fact  of  my  presence  from  my  father. 
The  conference  between  us  was  not  to  be  delayed. 
It  must  take  place  to-night. 

"  He  was  so  engrossed  that  he  did  not  hear  my 
footsteps.  I  was  startled  when  I  saw  what  his 
occupation  was.  He  was  loading  his  pistol.  I  was 
not  in  a  condition  to  measure  accurately  the  flight 
of  time,  but  I  must  have  lingered  on  the  staircase 
some  minutes  after  his  return  to  the  library,  for,  as 
I  afterwards  discovered,  he  had  quite  finished  his 
task  when  I  interrupted  him.  He  had  taken  out 
his  box  of  cartridges  from  a  drawer  of  his  writing- 
desk,  which  still  stood  open. 

"  '  Father  ! '  I  called  to  him.     '  Father  !  ' 

"  He  uttered  an  exclamation  of  horror,  repulsed 
the  pistol,  as  if  endeavoring  to  conceal  it,  and 
turned  toward  me.  He  whispered  my  name,  and 
took  a  step  or  two  hastily  toward  me. 

"  At  the  same  time  I  uttered  a  cry  of  warning, 
for  I  saw  the  pistol  topple  over  by  its  own  weight. 
Slowly  at  first  and  then  with  a  quick  dash,  it  slid 
from  a  mass  of  papers  upon  which  it  had  been 
placed,  dropped  from  the  edge,  turned  completely 


NOT   WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  33 l 

over,  and  was  caught  in  the  corner  of  the  open 
drawer.  My  cry  was  drowned  by  the  simultaneous 
report.  Mr.  North  threw  up  his  hands,  rushed 
forward  with  an  awful  look  in  his  face,  and  fell  at 
my  feet. 

"  I  vaguely  remember  hearing  him  speak  my 
name  and  murmur  something  about  my  husband. 
But  this  sudden,  unexpected  climax  to  the  unutter- 
able horrors  of  that  night  gave  me  a  temporary 
relief  to  my  suffering.  I  could  bear  no  more.  I 
have  a  dim  remembrance  of  putting  out  my  hands 
to  save  myself  from  falling. 

"  I  have  no  means  of  knowing  how  long  I  lay 
upon  the  floor.  When  I  awoke  I  saw  my  father 
lying  motionless  by  the  door,  with  that  horrible 
dripping  scrawl  which  I  knew  had  been  made  by 
his  own  blood  upon  the  wall.  I  called  to  him,  I 
seized  his  hand,  but  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  quite 
dead. 

"  The  sight  of  the  blood  did  not  terrify  me.  I 
am  ashamed  to  confess  it,  and  I  cannot  explain  it, 
but  it  filled  me  temporarily  with  a  strange,  wild, 
savage  exultation.  I  know  now  that  I  must  have 
been  crazy.  Emotional  insanity,  the  physicians  call 
it.  God  knows  how  I  honored  and  loved  the  man 
who  had  been  a  father  to  me.  I  am  told  they  sus- 
pected me  of  having  killed  him.  Heaven  knows  I 
am  wicked  enough  ;  but  not  that  crime — no,  not 
that ! 

"  Let  me  pass  over  the  next  fifteen  minutes.  They 
will  be  a  terror  to  me  as  long  as  memory  remains 
to  me.  When  I  became  calmer,  I  tried  to  realize 
what  had  been  done.  I  had  no  doubt  that  my 
father  had  intended  to  write  a  message  to  me — to 
tell  me  no  doubt  that  this  man  was  not  my  husband. 
In  his  dying  moments  his  unfulfilled  purpose  had 
haunted  him. 

"  I  cannot  tell  the  stifling  sensations  which  fol- 


33  2  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

lowed  the  sudden  realization  that  this  writing  on 
the  wall  would  be  taken  as  an  accusation  against 
the  man  who  had  done  his  best  to  ruin  us  both. 

"  When  this  awful  idea  first  came  to  me,  I  fled 
from  the  room,  as  if  by  so  doing  I  could  leave  the 
idea  behind  me.  I  actually  had  opened  the  outer 
door  to  call  help  when  the  full  realization  of  all  that 
my  false  husband  had  done  to  me  rushed  over  me 
with  renewed  force.  I  stopped  still  and  my  heart 
was  steeled  to  every  cry  of  conscience.  As  fully 
possessed  of  my  faculties  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life, 
I  stood  at  the  door  and  thought  of  everything — of 
the  chances  of  the  success  of  this  terrible  revenge 
for  my  wrongs  ;  of  my  ability  to  carry  out  the  plan  ; 
of  the  fact  even  that  once  embarked  in  it  there  could 
be  no  drawing  back  ;  that  I  could  never  survive 
the  disgrace  of  discovery.  '  Revenge,'  I  say,  now  ; 
but  that  night  the  word  in  my  mind  was  '  justice.' 
Would  this  act  of  mine  immolate  Albert  Runyon  in 
a  greater  degree  than  he  had  sacrificed  me  ?  No — 
and  this  to  my  mind  that  night  was  '  justice  ! ' 

"  This  reflection  sealed  my  fate.  I  went  back 
resolutely.  I  assured  myself  that  my  father  was 
dead  beyond  all  recall.  I  replaced  the  cartridges 
in  the  drawer  whence  he  had  taken  them.  The 
fatal  pistol  still  lay  upside  down  firmly  wedged  in 
its  place,  with  its  barrel  laid  across  the  corner  point- 
ing outward  at  an  upward  angle.  The  hammer  had 
caught  upon  the  ornamental  scroll  work  just  above 
the  drawer  as  it  fell.  To  such  a  point  were  my 
faculties  sharpened  by  the  danger  and  the  boldness 
of  my  designs  that  I  noted  every  detail  of  these 
facts.  I  knew  that  this  pistol  was  the  only  testi- 
mony to  the  real  facts  of  my  father's  death. 

"  I  put  the  pistol  in  my  pocket,  turned  out  the 
lights,  and  stole  from  the  chamber  of  death  with  the 
full  realization  that  I  had  made  myself  a  criminal. 

"  It  is  unnecessary  for  me  to  tell  what  followed  ; 


NOT   WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  333 

of  the  clearer  realization  of  my  position  that 
came  with  reflection ;  of  the  awful  complication 
in  which  I  found  I  had  involved  myself  and  my 
innocent  sister  ;  of  my  bitter  remorse  when  it  was 
too  late.  May  Heaven  have  mercy  on  me. 

"  MARION   NORTH." 

"  COMMONWEALTH  OF  MASSACHUSETTS,  \ 

"  ESSEX,  ss. 

"  SWAMPSCOTT,  June  26,  1887.       ) 

"  Then  personally  appeared  before  me  the  above  named 
Marion  North,  who  made  oath  that  the  foregoing  statement, 
by  her  submitted,  is  true. 

"  WILLIAM  FLETCHER, 

' '  Justice  of  the  Peace, " 

"That  is  all,  gentlemen,"  said  Thomas,  as  he 
folded  the  document — "all  that  is  written  here.  I 
hardly  need  say  that  I  do  not  subscribe  to  the  lady's 
idea  of  her  father's  purpose  in  writing  his  partner's 
name  on  the  wall.  She  takes  a  view  lenient  as  pos- 
sible to  him.  But  to  my  mind  that  he  carried  a  full 
intention  of  revenging  himself  upon  his  recreant 
partner  from  the  moment  he  set  out  to  load  that 
pistol  with  the  intention  of  shooting  him,  to  the  mo- 
ment of  his  death,  is  the  only  logical  construction 
to  be  placed  upon  his  conduct.  And  I  unhesi- 
tatingly put  North  at  the  head  of  the  conspiracy. 
His  daughter — unfortunate  woman! — let  his  pur- 
pose be  carried  out  by  concealing  the  evidences  of 
the  accident.  In  the  sequel  we  see  the  mockery  of 
fate;  for  in  the  end  it  is  not  Stackhouse,  but  Rich- 
ard Fetridge,  who  is  arrested  for  the  crime." 

And,  indeed,  Thomas's  view  of  the  case  was  the 
theory  which  came  eventually  to  be  accepted  by  all 
cognizant  of  the  facts,  and  though  it  may  not  be 


334  WRITTEN  IN  RED. 

quite  possible  to  determine  beyond  a  doubt  the  in- 
tent of  Paul  North  in  writing  upon  the  wall,  still 
Mr.  Thomas's  conclusion,  that  a  deadly  purpose  of 
revenge  filled  the  mind  of  the  dying  man,  must  be, 
in  lieu  of  something  better,  accepted  as  final. 

The  profound  silence  which  immediately  fol- 
lowed the  reporter's  words  was  broken  by  Fetridge, 
who  had  been  sitting  with  his  hand  shading  his  eyes 
during  the  latter  portion  of  the  reading. 

"And  to  think,"  he  murmured,  "that  it  was  for 
this  end  I  have  been  trying  to  keep  this  scandal 
from  the  public  ear!  Why,  it  will  be  worse,  a 
thousand  times  worse,"  he  exclaimed,  starting  up, 
"than  if  I  had  precipitated  the  facts  as  I  knew 
them.  Then  it  might  have  been  hushed  up.  Now 
that  is  impossible." 

"If  you  had  but  had  a  little  confidence  in  me!" 
said  John  Lamm  reproachfully.  "Well,  Inspector, 
what's  to  be  done?" 

He  asked  the  question  a  little  maliciously. 

"How  do  we  know  that  this  statement  is  true?" 
exclaimed  Applebee,  who  was  but  just  recovering 
from  his  breathless  amazement.  "Fortunately  this 
woman  is  already  under  arrest,  and — " 

'  'Ah,  pardon  me,"  interrupted  Thomas,  solemnly. 
"She  is  not,  inspector." 

"Not  arrested ! "  exclaimed  the  astonished  official. 

"You  do  not  know  that  woman,  "  said  the  repor- 
ter with  a  sigh,  "or  you  would  have  guessed  the 
truth  already.  Marion  North  could  not  survive 
such  a  disclosure." 


NOT  WHAT   THEY  EXPECTED.  335 

' '  She  is  dead ! ' '  cried  Fetridge,  with  bloodless  lips. 

"She  is  dead,"  repeated  the  reporter.  "Soon 
after  the  witnessing  of  this  document  she  com- 
plained of  feeling  weak,  and  expressed  a  desire  to 
lie  down.  A  little  later  her  sister  came  to  me, 
greatly  alarmed.  Marion  was  breathing  strangely, 
she  said,  and  her  face  had  changed  color.  I  sus- 
pected the  truth  and  hastened  after  a  -physician. 
When  he  commenced  his  examination  he  found  this 
little  bit  of  paper  in  her  bosom: 

"  'For  God's  sake,  conceal  my  disgrace!  I  have 
poisoned  myself.' ' 

Richard  Fetridge  uttered  a  groan,  sank  into  his 
chair,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

"The  physician  privately  informed  the  officers 
who  came  to  arrest  her,"  continued  the  reporter, 
"that  she  had  been  summoned  before  a  higher 
tribunal." 

And  Richard  Fetridge  could  only  murmur — 

"Heaven  pity  her  and  me!  God  have  mercy  on 
us  both." 

And  so  the  great  case  came  to  an  end.  Thomas 
succeeded  in  keeping  all  but  the  most  meager  details 
from  the  curious  gaze  of  the  public.  It  was  not  in 
his  province  to  suppress  news,  but,  as  John  Lamm 
said — 

"A  man  will  do  a  great  deal  for  the  sake  of  the 
woman  he  thinks  enough  of  to  marry." 

THE  END. 


A     000137730     8 


